


Hurt

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I have no excuses, Injury, KageHina - Freeform, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Seizures, character injury, concussion, hinata gets hurt, i just wanted kags being worried about his not-boyf, idk i just kicked his ass man, suga being a top mum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-30 10:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6420862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s alarming, Kageyama thinks, how quickly things can go downhill. </p>
<p>One minute Hinata is fine, at the top of his game, spiking left and right and everywhere in between and the next he is crumpled in a limp, lifeless heap on the gym floor and the resounding crack of his head hitting the wood is still echoing in Kageyama’s ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was just thinking about how the team would deal if Hinata got a Bad Hurt and then this happened 
> 
> Also don't take this as medically sound advice at all they're teenage boys they don't necessarily handle things in the best way

It’s alarming, Kageyama thinks, how quickly things can go downhill.

One minute Hinata is _fine_ , at the top of his game, spiking left and right and everywhere in between and the next he is crumpled in a limp, lifeless heap on the gym floor and the resounding crack of his head hitting the wood is still echoing in Kageyama’s ears.

He isn’t even sure what happened. They’d blocked Hinata’s spike, that much he knows; whether it was Tsukishima or Asahi or Suga he isn’t sure, because all three of them are standing in a wide-eyed line beside the net and none of them have lowered their hands. They’d blocked the spike, and Hinata had dropped from his jump and the next thing Kageyama knew, he was down.

Suga is the first to get his bearings, and he ducks under the net and drops to his knees beside Hinata’s head, hands hovering and fussing and trying to work out where he can touch him that won’t make him shatter. Daichi comes next, brushes against Kageyama’s arm on his way past and then he’s kneeling, too, palm braced on Suga’s shoulder and from his profile Kageyama can see the creases in his brow and the nip of his lip between his teeth.

“He landed on the ball.” Kageyama isn’t sure who said it – Yamaguchi, maybe, or Ennoshita – but now that he’s heard it he can see it. He can see the ball slam to the ground on _their_ side of the net, he can see Hinata’s feet descending from the skies and he can see the ball hopping up to meet him, see it drop down beneath Hinata as he falls and he can see the moment Hinata’s full weight lands on it, the way his body tips and tilts and his momentum carries his torso to the floor before his legs and _god_ he can _see_ the way the back of his head cracks into the ground.

“Nobody move him!”

Kageyama had almost forgotten there were adults in the gym with them. Ukai, at least, has kept his bearings; Takeda is shaking and speechless where he sits on the bench, staring and useless, and Kageyama would maybe like to smack him out of it if he could bring himself to just _move_.

“Be careful,” Ukai says, muscles his way between the little circle that has erected itself around Hinata’s body and eases everyone back enough that Kageyama can spy Hinata’s frame in the gaps between legs. _When did everybody move?_ “Can’t move him if he’s hurt his neck.”

“Did he knock himself out?” It’s Tanaka, and Kageyama can see him bouncing on his toes like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Suga answers with a quiet _yeah_ and Kageyama strains to see through the sea of knees obscuring his view. Suga’s eyes are trained on what he assumes is Hinata’s face, and besides the little furrow dipping his brow, he looks calm enough. Which is more than Kageyama can say for, well, everyone else.

“Did that come off _my_ hand?” Asahi’s voice is shaky and uncertain and Daichi picks his way through the little throng to slap a palm to Asahi’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, stern and sure. “Doesn’t matter who it came off, it was an accident. It’s not important.”

“Has anybody gone for the nurse?”

Kageyama pulls his eyes from Daichi and Asahi to turn them on Tsukishima. He’s got one hand braced on his hip and the other is adjusting his glasses on his nose and had Kageyama not known him better, he’d say the look Tsukishima is casting towards the circle is something like _concerned_.

It’s Ennoshita who moves, switches his shoes at the door and jogs from the gym, and Kageyama still hasn’t shifted from his spot by the net. His hands hurt where they’re fisted at his sides and his shoes are cemented to the floor, legs stiff and aching and he _wants_ to move, he does; he wants to shove his way through and shake some life into Hinata because that _idiot_ never gets hurt, not badly, not like this. 

But he can’t – his chest feels tight and full and his tongue is fat and numb where it sits in his mouth. Even shifting his gaze from one person to another is too much, takes too long, like moving them through syrup.

“Hey, Hinata, can you hear me?”

There’s no reply, but a wave of mutters billows through the crowd and carries all the way back to Yamaguchi where he stands behind Tsukishima and he echoes it, just loud enough for Kageyama to hear.

“He’s awake,” he says, grips the elbow of Tsukishima’s jacket and raises himself on his toes. “But he’s not talking.”

“Hinata,” Suga tries again, and Kageyama can see his head dip lower, closer to where Hinata’s body lies on the floor. His voice is everything Kageyama has ever associated with Suga; calm, soothing, with just an edge of authority and the gym falls silent as they wait for Hinata to respond.

The quiet stretches, filled by the tick of the clock and the stutter of Tanaka’s shoes where he taps them on the floor. Hinata doesn’t respond, not audibly, at least, and Suga’s body cranes closer to the ground.

“You alright, kid?” It’s Ukai this time, sounding a little shaky and a little unsure, and Kageyama strains his ears for any response.

“Don’t move.” Suga’s hand drops to rest on Hinata’s hip, and through the gap between Daichi and Asahi Kageyama can see his fingers rubbing circles into his skin. “You hurt your head,” he says, “we’re waiting to see if the nurse is still here. Just lie still.”

But Hinata doesn’t listen. Kageyama can’t really see him but he can see Suga, and he watches the way he lurches on his knees, shuffles closer to Hinata’s face and eases his hands onto his shoulders.

“You’re alright,” Suga says. His tone is quiet, gentle, but it still carries through the gym. Kageyama doesn’t need to look around to know that all eyes are focused on them, fixed on the centre of the circle. “You’re okay. Don’t move.”

Kageyama hears it then, the frailest, most pitiful sound filtering out from beside Suga. It’s shaky and slurred and messy and _pathetic_ , and Kageyama’s throat snaps closed the moment it registered that that noise, that tiny, disastrous noise, came from Hinata. It’s so far removed from what Kageyama is used to; there’s nothing boisterous to it, no baseless confidence or boundless energy or remotely anything _Hinata_ about it.

“I can’t hear you,” Suga says. Kageyama’s eyes follow Suga’s hand as it smooths up and down Hinata’s arm, and there’s a moments pause before Hinata tries again. His response is slow and delayed and it doesn’t sound like words to Kageyama. For a moment he thinks it’s just him, that whatever it is that’s gluing him to the floor is sticking his ears, too, filtering Hinata’s words like they’re coming through water, but then a new wave of muttering bubbles out from the group and Kageyama drags his eyes away from Suga’s hand to look from concerned face to concerned face.

“Why does he sound like that?” Nishinoya pipes up, a little too loud and a little too frantic. “Why can’t he talk properly?”

“He hit his _head_ ,” Daichi says, holds up placating hands, “he’s just confused. Give him a little time to come around.”

Kageyama wants to let Daichi’s words settle him, he does, but when Hinata’s voice sounds again, still wavy and disjointed, the calm on Daichi’s face cracks at the corners and Kageyama jerks his gaze and lets his focus tunnel in on the parts of Hinata he can see.

Hinata doesn’t try talking again, though Suga keeps on prompting, and Kageyama counts the seconds by the tick of the clock before Ennoshita runs back in, breathing hard and shaking his head.

“Nurse is gone,” he says, kicking off his shoes. “How is he?”

“Call an ambulance.”

It’s Tsukishima’s suggestion again, and everyone takes a moment to stare at him like he’s grown an extra head before Ukai straightens up and steps outside, phone already at his ear. Kageyama wants to do something helpful out of _spite_ because Tsukishima, of all people, can’t be handling this better than he is but he’s still _frozen_. He’s still stuck, and his eyes feel too dry, like he hasn’t blinked in a while and it occurs to him that maybe he _hasn’t_ , maybe he hasn’t blinked since Hinata’s head hit the floor.

And then there’s movement within the circle and everyone is talking at once, shuffling back like there’s a fire in the middle of them and Kageyama’s eyes pull impossibly wider.

Hinata is _trembling_ , head to foot, and his neck is strained back at an unnatural angle, fingers gnarled and tensed and Kageyama watches the flex of his legs, the way the muscles bunch painfully tight and now that the circle has spread wide enough to see Hinata’s face he can see the tension in his jaw, the way his lips draw back enough to expose his teeth and the whites of his eyes flickering beneath his lids and the entire effect makes Kageyama’s heart drop to his stomach.

It’s Tsukishima that moves – quicker than Kageyama has ever seen him, probably -, brushes past Kageyama to the benches, and then he’s shoving past his team and kneeling beside Hinata and easing a bunched up jacket under his head. Part of Kageyama wants to push him away; Tsukishima’s hands have never done anything _beneficial_ to Hinata. They’re always blocking or serving or spiking and when they’re not doing that, they’re masking bitten insults and snide remarks. Kageyama wants to stop him but, he is reluctant to admit, Tsukishima is the only person in the room with a level head right now.

“Keep an eye on him,” Tsukishima says, looking at Suga. “When it stops, move him onto his side in case he throws up. _Carefully_.”

And then he’s gone, striding back to stand beside Yamaguchi and look on from the outside.

It feels like a life time before the convulsions stop. Kageyama’s body is itching; he’s torn between wanting to move, to help, and being unable to bring himself to even _breathe_.

Once Hinata falls still, Suga and Daichi roll him over onto one side and Suga rubs a few soothing circles into the top of his back. 

“You’re okay,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper. “You’re alright, Hinata. It’s okay.”

Hinata’s voice drifts up again, decidedly louder than before and a little shriller, too, though his words are still too slurred for Kageyama to catch. He’s shifting again and Kageyama worries, for a moment, that the tremors will start back up, but then Hinata speaks again and this time Kageyama can just make it out.

“What happened?”

“You hit your head,” Suga says, and Kageyama feels like he’s said it a million times now. “You’re gonna be fine, just lie still. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

Hinata hums out something that sounds like a sob and turns his face into the jacket Tsukishima used for a pillow. He sucks in a few breaths, each one sounding a little shorter and a little more desperate than the last, and Kageyama can see the shiver vibrating his whole body.

“Hey, just stay calm, alright?” Suga teases nimble fingers along Hinata’s forehead, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I know you don’t feel good but you’re okay. Take a few big breaths.”

Kageyama watches the rise of his shoulders, the way they stretch up to meet his ears as he heaves in a breath but it shudders out and he sounds just as empty again, just as panicked and confused when he asks, again, what happened.

“Just an accident,” Suga tells him, “try and breathe in through your nose instead of your mouth.”

“Can’t,” Hinata says, and his breath hiccups a little in his throat.

“Why not?”

“Can’t. I can’t.”

Suga raises his eyes to look at Daichi and Kageyama can see the worry in them, a new wave of concern knotting his brows and Hinata hitches a couple more breaths and turns his face further into the jacket.

“…Yama.”

He’s still a little slow and slurred, but Kageyama hears him all the same and everyone else must, too, because there eyes flit to him and back again.

“Kag’yama.”

Everyone looks back at him again. Kageyama knows how he must look, stock still and frozen and staring and his eyes, judging by the sting of them, are probably bloodshot and as much as he wants to gather himself, he _can’t_.

“You want Kageyama?”

Hinata doesn’t say anything, doesn’t nod or shake, just brings one small, shaking hand up to fist the fabric of the jacket resting beneath his head. Suga looks up, fishes his eyes through the crowd until they land on Kageyama and, with an almost questioning look, he beckons him forward.

Kageyama doesn’t move.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to – he does, if it will help Hinata stop being this weird, broken mess and start being _Hinata_ again, of course he does – it’s just, no part of his body is cooperating right now.

Hinata mumbles his name again, and he’s still breathing too fast and too heavy and Kageyama can see the edges of a bruise webbing out from his hairline at the nape of his neck. It’s another horrible reminder and the _crack_ rumbles through Kageyama’s head again.

“It’s yours,” Tsukishima says, then, and Kageyama peels his gaze away from the back of Hinata’s head to look at him. “The jacket. He’s confused, he probably thinks you’re already with him.”

It takes a little ushering for Kageyama to finally get his feet moving, and when they do he glides over the court and around Hinata’s frame and he kneels down in front of his face.

Hinata doesn’t look at him, doesn’t make any motion to indicate he’s aware somebody knew has come into view and Kageyama thinks, grudgingly, that Tsukishima is probably right. The smell of him on the jacket coaxed Hinata into thinking Kageyama was already there, already beside him.

“Dumbass.” It comes out hoarse and croaky and too quiet, and Hinata doesn’t react to it at all. From up close, Kageyama can see how badly Hinata is trembling; his arms are the worst, shaking as though he were out in a blizzard, and his teeth are chattering so violently Kageyama is surprised he hadn’t heard them before.

He feels too tall, kneeling beside Hinata’s tiny, broken frame and he shuffles until he’s lying on his side, one elbow crooked to prop his head up, staring into the side of Hinata’s face.

“Oi, idiot.” Hinata doesn’t move, save for the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fist in Kageyama’s jacket. Kageyama wants to _do_ something; grab his hair or flick his forehead or shake his shoulder but he doesn’t dare even _touch_ him, not even to still the anxious tick in his shoulders. “Hinata, stupid, look at me.”

Hinata rolls his head until his face is out of Kageyama’s jacket but it lolls uncertainly, and even when he stills himself to look at Kageyama he’s still a little wobbly and _oh_ , Kageyama thinks, swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

“His eyes aren’t right,” he says, panic sifting into his voice. He doesn’t take his gaze off of Hinata’s for fear he’ll look away again. Hinata blinks sluggishly, sucks some air between his chattering teeth.

“What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re…weird. One’s bigger than the other.”

He can feel the heat of Suga where he kneels behind him, leaning close to see what Kageyama means and when he does Kageyama hears the whoosh of air filtering back into his lungs.

“Yeah,” Suga says, and for the first time Kageyama realises just how shaky his voice is. “Keep an eye on them, okay? And make sure he stays awake. I’m gonna go talk to Ukai for a minute.”

Kageyama hums his acknowledgement. He still very much does _not_ like this situation; everything about Hinata is wrong, his eyes and the pallor of his skin and the tremors and the confusion colouring his face and the _silence_.

“You okay?”

It’s a monumentally _stupid_ question, Kageyama knows, but he doesn’t know what else he’s supposed to say. Hinata is looking at him, head swaying against his jacket, with one blown pupil and his jaw quaking and of course he isn’t _okay_.

“I don’t…” Hinata tries, and he has to pull in a few more breathes before he can finish. “I don’t know what happened.”

“You fell. You fell and you hit your head and you’re being really weird.”

Hinata’s lips twitch, like he might try and smile, and his lashes flutter a couple of times before he forces them open again. They lie for a while, Kageyama piping up with stupid reminders every time Hinata’s lids sink shut for a little too long, and after a few minutes Hinata’s breathing starts to settle into something more manageable, though he’s still sucking air through his mouth rather than his nose.

“’M tired.”

“Yeah, me too,” Kageyama says, and he reaches out to poke at the hand clenching his jacket. “But it’s day time. You can’t sleep yet.”

Hinata’s hand unfolds and he makes a weak grab at Kageyama’s retreating finger and for a second Kageyama lets himself relax because _this_ is a little better, Hinata fighting and teasing back, but then his hand keeps searching and his breathing picks up that horrible, desperate, jerky rhythm and his tongue fumbles over Kageyama’s name over and over until Kageyama, face hot and red, moves his hand back within reach.

Hinata lets his fingers curl around Kageyama’s and the pattern of clenching and unclenching continues.

There isn’t much more he can do. Kageyama lets Hinata keep his feeble grip on his hand and he talks about volleyball nonsense to keep him awake and, after what feels like a life time, a few sets of feet stumble into the gym and Kageyama turns to see Suga, followed by a few paramedics, with Ukai ushering them in from behind.

It’s Suga who pulls Kageyama aside and he slides his hand away from Hinata’s with a horrible, tight pain pulling at his chest when Hinata’s fingers clench, frantic, around empty air. Suga leads him off to stand with the others and together they wait, silent, listening as the paramedics fire question after question at Ukai.

 _How long has it been since he hit his head?_ Fifteen minutes or so. _Was he unconscious?_ Yes. _Did he vomit at all?_ No, but he had a seizure. _How long did it last?_ About thirty seconds, I think.

Kageyama listens to the rattle of question and answer and tries to convince himself it’s only been fifteen minutes since this whole disaster started. It feels like a life time, honestly, with everything that’s happened and Kageyama can feel the weight of it pulling at his shoulders, so heavy and unsteadying that he thinks, for a moment, he might have to sit down.

And then the questions turn to Hinata.

 _Can you tell us your name?_ Hinata Shouyou. _Do you know what day it is? Where you are?_ Wednesday. Gym. _Can you tell me the date?_ No. _Do you remember what happened?_ I fell. I fell and I hit my head and I’m being really weird.

By the time it comes to loading Hinata into the ambulance, everyone is antsy. The paramedics have been mumbling amongst themselves, exchanging words and information with Ukai and Takeda who, Kageyama notes, has managed to pull himself together well enough to join in the conversation. Hinata looks small on the gurney, neck held stiff in a brace, and one of the paramedics is leaning over, talking with him, all soft words and reassuring smiles.

And then they’re gone, out the door, and Ukai scrubs a hand over his face and turns to address the team.

He doesn’t get a word out before the questions start.

“Is he okay?”

“Is he gonna die?”

“What the hell happened?”

“Why did he go all shaky?”

“Is he gonna _die?”_

“No!” Ukai’s voice carries loud and sharp enough to quell the noise and he heaves one big, calming breath.

“He’s not okay,” he says, and holds up a hand to silence the voices before they start. “He’s very not okay. Bad concussion at best, who knows what at worst. But he’s on his way to the hospital, and they’re gonna do everything they can to fix him up. We just have to wait and see what happens.

“Now, are _you_ guys okay?”

There’s a lull, then, where nobody knows what to say or what to do.

“Shaken,” Suga says, and he casts a look around them, heaves a breath and sighs it back out with a smile. “Shaken, but we’re alright.”

“Good.” Ukai’s eyes flit through the group and Kageyama feels more than sees them settle on him. “Clean up, head home.”

They let out one resounding _yes_ and shuffle off, and Kageyama turns to follow Suga and Daichi to help with the net.

“Kageyama, come here a minute.”

Kageyama casts a glance after Suga before he turns on his heel, follows Ukai to the benches where he sits and gestures for Kageyama to do the same.

“Are you okay?” 

It feels stupid, to be sat down and asked the same question separate to the team, and Kageyama furrows his brow and sets his jaw as he nods.

“Just checking. You look a little pale, is all.”

“I’m fine,” he says, pushing himself to stand on shaky knees. “I’ll help clean up now.”

* * *

Kageyama wakes up to his phone blaring.

It’s still dark out, moonlight filtering in through Kageyama’s curtains, and the clock by the bed says it’s only a little after 2am. Kageyama picks his phone from the bedside table and flips it in his palm, blinks the light from his eyes and chokes.

 _Hinata_.

For a moment he considers not answering; it’s late, Hinata’s in the hospital, and this can’t possibly be anything _good_ , but the caller ID flashes over and over on the screen and Kageyama answers the call with his breath held in his lungs.

“Hello?”

It’s quiet, for a moment, and then Hinata’s tiny, whispering voice creeps through the line.

“Kageyama.”

Kageyama sinks into his pillows and drops his forearm over his eyes. _Thank god_ , he thinks, that it’s Hinata and not a parent or doctor or some other adult calling to inform him that something terrible has happened since Hinata was carted away.

“You should be sleeping.”

“’M not supposed to use my phone,” he whispers. “Bad for my brain.” His voice is still horribly slurred and a little inattentive, but he’s alive and talking and that is enough to ease some of the worry that’s been eating Kageyama up since he left practice.

“Then get off it, idiot.”

“Slept a lot,” he says. “And they keep,” there’s a pause, where Hinata just stops and breathes. Kageyama wonders if he’s maybe fallen asleep, but then his voice pipes up again and it’s like he never stopped talking. “They keep sending someone in to wake me up.”

“So you don’t slip into a coma and _die_.” He’s done some intensive googling and, while he did learn an awful lot about concussions, it did absolutely nothing to ease his concern and this phone call is hardly helping.

“Can’t play volleyball.”

It’s disconcerting, the way the conversation is bouncing, and Kageyama so badly wants to tell somebody at the hospital that Hinata is awake and that he’s still not _Hinata_ but, from his bedroom, there’s nothing he can do.

“Yeah, I figured.”

“For ages. For _ever_ , maybe.”

Kageyama bristles at that.

“Not forever, stupid, just until your head heals up.”

“Mum says forever.”

Kageyama scrubs a hand over his face; he does not need this at two in the morning, not when the worry in his gut is already making it hard to sleep.

“Hinata,” he says, trying for stern. “It’s really late. You hit your head. You should rest, and worry about volleyball in the morning.” Hinata just hums, and then there’s a lot of rustling and clattering and Kageyama hears muffled voices, and then there’s a lot more commotion before a woman’s voice comes down the line.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and there’s an edge of annoyance to her tone. “He isn’t meant to be using his phone.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to take it with me, so please don’t try and call back.”

Kageyama feels a little insulted at the insinuation, but he’s mostly just thankful that Hinata is off the line.

“Thank you,” he says, and then, after a beat, “can you tell him I’ll see him tomorrow?”

* * *

He’s never been a fan of hospitals. Not that he’s had all that much experience with them, but the connotations have always made Kageyama’s skin crawl.

Today is no different.

He’s walking with Suga on his right and Daichi on his left, bag slung over his shoulder and his hands shoved in his pockets to hide their shaking. Suga’s presence is calming, as always, and Daichi’s is reassuring, like nothing can go wrong with the captain by his side and for a moment, there’s a little swell of pleasure at having his teammates beside him.

And then he remembers where they are, and the joy abruptly fizzles out.

Hinata is lucky enough – or unlucky enough, as the situation would have it – to have his own room. The head of the bed is surrounded by machines with wires that extend below the line of Hinata’s gown. There’s an IV feeding fluid into the back of his hand and his neck and shoulders are propped up by a small mountain of pillows.

And then there’s Hinata himself.

He looks…better, marginally, than he did yesterday, although that might only be because his eyes are closed and his face is slack with sleep. He’s lying on his back with his head twisted to one side, cheek pressed to the pillows, and Kageyama can see the mesh of bruising fingering out from his hair behind one ear.

“Good evening.”

Kageyama shakes his gaze away from Hinata to fall on who he assumes to be his mother, nestled in a chair with a book folded in her lap, smiling at them from beside the bed. Kageyama nods, offers a bow and a mumbled _evening_ , and waits in silence as Suga and Daichi do the same.

“How is he?” Suga asks, and Hinata’s mother wipes a tired hand down the side of her face.

“He’s…okay,” she says, shrugs a shoulder. “It’s strange, seeing him so quiet. He’s usually so lively.”

Kageyama feels himself nod, numbly. That is all he’s been able to think about – bouncy, bubbly Hinata lying unresponsive on the gym floor, unfocused and unseeing and _silent_. He looks at the Hinata in the bed and his brain pulls up image after image of the Hinata he knows, the Hinata who falters but never falls, the Hinata who bounces like rubber. Not _this_. It’s painful to look at.

“He’ll be out for a while, I think,” she says, and when Suga and Daichi give her questioning looks she adds, “from volleyball, I mean.”

“Oh.”

It’s not that they hadn’t expected it, Kageyama knows, because they aren’t _stupid_ and he suspects they probably spent about as much time reading up about head injuries as he did. It’s just, hearing it out loud is a little like a punch to the gut.

“Yeah.” Hinata’s mother cards a hand back through her hair. “He’s not going to be happy about it. He’s _already_ not happy about it.”

“I know.” The words leave Kageyama’s mouth before he has time to think about them, and three pairs of eyes turn to look at him. “He called me,” he says, fights the urge to shift from foot to foot under their stares. “In the night. I’m sorry, I know he isn’t supposed to use his phone.”

Hinata’s mother waves him off with a soft, understanding kind of smile.

“It’s alright,” she says, “it’s not your fault.”

“Aside from taking a volleyball break,” Daichi says, turns fully to face Hinata’s mother. “Will there be any other problems?”

Kageyama memorises the list she gives them like he’s learning new hand signals. Headaches. Nausea. Dizziness. Vomiting. Fatigue. Mood swings, anxiety, personality changes, sensitivity to noise, memory loss, speech troubles, vision troubles, seizures. Any number of them could happen and the staying time is completely unknown.

“They could last days, weeks, months,” she says, and her gaze drifts to Hinata’s sleeping figure. “They might never go away. There’s no way of knowing, really. We just have to wait and hope.”

He’s starting to feel a little sick, thinking about it. About all the problems Hinata could have because of one stupid accident. Moody, quiet Hinata, sick and tired and aching for the rest of his _life_ , maybe, all because he fell and hit his head.

“We’ll help in any way we can,” Suga says, glances to the bed and back again. “We’re just sorry we couldn’t look after him better.”

Kageyama drowns out the conversation, vaguely aware of words like _don’t be silly_ and _not your fault_  and _couldn’t have prevented it_ but most of his concentration is aimed at the body in the bed. He’s stirring, brow twitching, fingers nipping the bed sheets, and then he blinks his eyes open and rolls his head on the pillows and his gaze roves over his mother, over Daichi and Suga, to settle on Kageyama.

“Kag’yama.” He’s less slurred than he was on the phone, just a little clumsy, and Kageyama takes two big steps to cross the distance between them. “What’re you doing here?”

“I told you we were coming, idiot.”

“Oh.” His brow dips low and he stares hard at the bed sheets, then looks back up at Kageyama with a sorry kind of expression on his face. “I don’t remember.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, “it was late. You were tired.”

“How are you feeling?”

Hinata turns his eyes to Daichi and pulls his mouth into a tired, lazy kind smile.

“Okay. Kinda tired, and my head hurts.”

Suga laughs softly, crowds in to place his palm of the back of Hinata’s hand.

“I’m not surprised,” he says, and Hinata melts into the pillows in Suga’s soothing presence.  

“How long do you have to stay?”

“I don’t know,” he says, and looks to his mother for help.

“A few days, at least. It depends on how well his recovery goes.”

They talk a while longer, pleasant conversation buzzing between them and Kageyama is quiet for the most part, content to listen, and then Hinata’s mother stands with a stretch and leans over the bed to kiss Hinata on the forehead.

“I need to go pick up Natsu,” she says, and Hinata gives one slow, small nod. “I’ll be back in a little bit. I’m sure your friends will keep you company for a while?”

Kageyama nods, and then Hinata’s mother is leaving, and the four boys look at one another in silence.

“Actually,” Suga says, scratching at the back of his head, “I really have to get going. But I’ll come back tomorrow! Noya and Tanaka are desperate to see you.”

“Yeah, I need to leave, too,” Daichi says. They’re both standing, slinging their bags over their shoulders before Kageyama has time to do anything other than flounder. “You’ll stay for a bit, right, Kageyama?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Good!” Suga offers them both a smile and a wave, and then they’re gone, door swinging closed, and Kageyama turns to the bed and blinks.

“You don’t have to stay.” Hinata drops his cheek to the pillow and rolls onto his side, fists the bed sheets in his hand and he starts it again, that rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fingers. “I’ll probably sleep soon anyways, and you probably want to practice.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, and after a beat he adds, a little scathing, “not like I have anyone to practice _with_ anyway.”

“Oi.” Hinata’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. “I’m sick, you can’t be mean to me.”

“Can so.”

“Can _not_.”

Kageyama’s lip curls in a snarl and he reaches out his hand without thinking and stills it in mid-air. He can’t flick his face or punch his arm or pull his hair, so instead he settles for poking at the hand holding the bed sheets.

He withdraws with a self-satisfied kind of smirk, like he’s won, but his face freezes at the way Hinata’s hand chases his away from the sheets, fingers grabbing and searching.

“What?” He says, because Hinata is conscious enough to respond, this time. But he doesn’t, just makes a few more grabby motions in Kageyama’s direction. When Kageyama doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, Hinata turns his face further into his pillow and huffs out a breath.

“Give me your _hand_ , idiot.”

Kageyama watches the blush curl over Hinata’s cheek as he extends his arm to rest on the mattress, lets Hinata’s hand creep over it and wind their fingers together.

“Why are you doing that?”

Hinata looks at their joined hands, watches the way his own fingers tense and relax and repeat, and shrugs a shoulder.

“Don’t know,” he says. “Nervous, I guess. Can’t help it.”

Kageyama’s mind bounces back to the list. _Anxiety_. And he thinks about Suga, _we’ll help in any way we can_.

“Do you feel better?” He says, and Hinata looks up at him. “With—with my hand, instead of the blanket.”

There’s a moment where Hinata considers him, eyes trained on the heat of his face, and Kageyama can see the cogs turning too hard in his bruised brain. He squeezes his fingers back.

“Stop thinking so hard, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Hinata smiles again, soft and gentle and _sleepy_ , and nuzzles his face further into the pillows. Kageyama is too busy watching him to pay too much attention to the tug on his arm until his own hand creeps into view, curled with Hinata’s, pulled right up under his chin, so close he can feel each steady, even breath Hinata draws blow out against his knuckles.

“It does,” Hinata says, lets his eyes drop closed. Kageyama bends forward, leans his other elbow on the mattress and props his chin a top his hand, watching the way Hinata’s eyes flutter and sink closed. “It does make me feel better.”

He could let go, Kageyama reasons as Hinata’s grip on his fingers slackens with sleep. He could take his hand back, grab his things and slip away unnoticed and Hinata would probably sleep until his mother returns, but Hinata’s palm is warm and soft and his own fingers look huge where they cage Hinata’s hand against the pillow.

Then there’s the puff of Hinata’s breath bleeding over his skin, a hot, steady reminder that he is living and breathing and battling through, that even if he didn’t bounce this time, he’s working his way back up.

(And if a little part of him thinks it’s maybe nice to hold Hinata’s hand for a while, well, that’s okay too.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna say a real quick, giant thank you to everybody who commented on this fic I was absolutely flawed by the responses!
> 
> So many of you guys really wanted a second chapter to show Hinata's recovery process and this is SORT of that, but it more deals with some of the long term affects of his injury more than the immediate recovery. Basically I wanted an excuse to write fluff and this is it and it came out way longer than anticipated oops anyway have some next level sugamama, Hinata's not so smooth road to recovery and some choice Kagehina fluff to sooth the soul

He’s heard a lot of things over the last few days that don’t really make a whole load of sense.

He’s heard, “you’re going to be fine,” and, “you’ll be home in a few days,” and, “there’s nothing for you to worry about,” words that come with warm, reassuring smiles, with pats to his hands and strokes of his hair, words that make the nasty little pit of nerves and doubt and fear loosen where it twists in his gut.

But he’s also heard, “we just need to keep an eye on things,” and, “there could be complications,” and, “here’s a very long list of things you need to tell us about immediately if you experience any one of them,” and it’s tiring - exhausting, really - to be pulled back and forth when all he wants to do is sleep away the ache in his head. 

The first couple of days after The Accident – because that’s what everybody keeps calling it – are a blur. They’re a mesh of white walls and bright lights, conversations he doesn’t remember having and pains he can’t even place.

The doctor comes in on day four. She’s smiling – she’s  _ always  _ smiling – but she’s got this… _ look _ in her eye that Hinata really can’t identify. He twists his eyes from her frame where she stands in the doorway, fist rapping loud loud  _ loud _ on the glass (everything sounds so loud now, huge and full and echo-y in his ears) to where his mother sits in a chair by the bed. She’s all straight-backed and cross-legged and she smiles back at the doctor with tight lips and pinched eyes. The pages of her book slam closed in her book with a wispy kind of  _ slap  _ that grates so hard in his head Hinata has to rub his ears to get rid of it.

“Shouyou,” The doctor says, spreads her smile wider still. “How are you feeling?”

Hinata…isn’t really sure how to answer that. He feels  _ better _ , definitely; less fuzzy around the edges, though the inside of his head is still a little too much like cotton to be comfortable and everything is  _ loud _ and-

“The lights are bright.” That’s what he settles on, curls his fingers into the sheets and looks between his mother and the doctor.

“Too bright?”

“Yeah.”

The three of them sit in silence. His mother is frowning, brows pulled so deep Hinata can’t bring himself to look at her. The doctor looks up at the strip light – straight at it, so direct Hinata can’t understand how her brain isn’t leaking out of ears – and then looks back at him and now she’s frowning, too.

“They make my head hurt,” he says. Not like his head doesn’t hurt all the time  _ anyway _ , but they make it worse, make it snap and throb and the doctor reaches behind her to hit the light switch and the click bangs around the inside of his skull.

“Is that better?” She asks, and Hinata frowns.

“Nothing’s different.”

Something lightning quick moves on one side and Hinata turns to see his mother, hair still swaying around her face from the speed she turned her head to look at the doctor. She’s bug-eyed, mouth open and drawn and Hinata watches the colour drain from her forehead all the way down her neck, sapping the red from her cheeks and lips and leaving her so pale she looks almost see-through in the glow from the overheads.

He’s only seen her look like that once in his entire life, and it was the day Natsu fell down the stairs and didn’t get up at the bottom.

The doctor and his mum exchange a lot of words Hinata doesn’t really understand. They’re talking fast and  _ loud _ , all they say blurring into one great buzzing bubble of noise that seeps in his ears and sinks in his chest, settles so heavy he can’t breathe.

Somewhere down the line he realises they’re talking to him. His mother is so close to his face her eyes have morphed into one huge blob in the middle and it makes pain swell from the back of his brain when he tries to pull her into focus. Her hand is on his chin, thumb pressed to the skin below his lip and she’s pulling it down and away from his mouth but for a moment, it doesn’t move.

And then he realises he’s clamping it between his teeth and chewing on the flesh hard enough to hurt.

Hinata releases his bottom lip with a weird sucking kind of sound and a rush of heat to the skin. He’s dribbling, warm, wet saliva running from the corner of his mouth and he wipes it with his wrist, looks into his mother's worried face and turns again to face the doctor.

That’s when they tell him about the seizures.

Hinata doesn’t take in all that much of what the doctor has to tell him; it’s a lot of big words he doesn’t understand but it’s boils down to something like – the back of your brain is bad now and might not work the way it’s supposed to sometimes. 

The doctor tells him that the portion of his brain that he messed up is in charge of his vision, which means that sometimes – like with the lights which, he learns, the doctor had switched off – his brain doesn’t properly translate the information his eyes feed to it. She tells him about a whole load of other things that might happen, too, like the lip biting and the drooling, and by the time she’s done explaining things most of the information has sieved itself in through one ear and right out the other. 

She ends it, though, by telling him that he can _ finally _ go home.

He’d like to break the news to his friends over the phone but his mother keeps it firmly tucked away inside her handbag. The team, she tells him, will just have to find out next time they come by to visit; phone screens, tv screens, game console screens hell, even  _ books _ are off limits for a little while. They’re too much strain, she says, and the doctor backs her up with some fancy terms that are too long or complex for Hinata to catch.

“The restrictions aren’t normally so, well, strict,” the doctor tells him, something like an apology twisting her face, “but because of the severity of the trauma…” blah blah  _ blah _ because Hinata’s brain clocks out around then. He’s sleepy, and it hurts, and everything is loud and throbbing and booming in his skull.  

Hinata doesn’t remember all that much about the journey home. He’s packed in blankets and pillows like bubble wrap in the car, his head cushioned thickly where it rests against the window and his mother drives so  _ slow _ , slower than she’s ever driven in her life, it feels like. He doesn’t remember leaving the car  _ at all _ . One minute they’re driving and the next he’s in bed with Natsu tucked up somewhere near his feet and his mother is shaking him away, two pills and a glass of water curled in her hand.

* * *

Home is a lot quieter than the hospital. It’s more comfortable, too, spending his days on the couch with a mountain of cushions and blankets, with drinks that he likes and food that doesn’t taste like cardboard.

It’s nice, but the medical jargon doesn’t stop. 

He hears his parents most evenings, sitting at the table with an array of little books and leaflets strewn about the tabletop, and between them they pass odd sentences that Hinata snags and folds to the back of his mind. 

“Early post-traumatic seizure, that’s what she said it was,” his mother says on a Monday. “The chances of him having more are a lot lower than if he had the initial seizure later.” 

“If he has more we’ll have to take him back,” she says on a Wednesday, and his father hums. “He might need medication, if he has another one.” 

“If the medication doesn’t work, they’ll have to do surgery,” she says on a Friday, whispered because Natsu is still lurking around gathering her toys but Hinata still hears her. “Remove the piece of his brain that’s causing the problems. That’s  _ only _ if he has more, though.” 

Hinata vaguely remembers, in between medical speak and sleeping, that Suga and Daichi come by to visit. He remembers being a little disappointed that the others didn’t come, too, but upon his mother’s reminder that he needs peace and quiet he can sort of understand why some team members didn’t get the invite to stop by. 

* * *

It’s a little over a week after his hospital release when he’s allowed to go back to school.

“No cycling,” his father says, stern, as he slips on his shoes at the door. “I’ll drive you.”

In theory it’s a good idea; he leaves for work around the same time Hinata usually sets off but the problem, Hinata finds, is that he arrives at the gates fifteen minutes earlier than usual and there isn’t a soul in sight.

His dad leaves with a slew of apologies sailing out of the car window even as he’s driving away. Hinata waits until the car turns to corner to sink to his knees against the wall. The pain isn’t gone, not completely; it’s still a dull throb at the back of his head that ebbs in intensity and he’s still a little dizzy all the time, honestly, even though he told his parents it had mostly gone away. He shifts to sit, tucks his knees to his chest and rests his cheek on the peak of them.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he must because he wakes to a hand on his shoulder and Kageyama’s wide, startled face staring down at him. He blinks the backlight from his eyes and rubs at them with his knuckles while Kageyama continues to stare, balanced on the balls of his feet with one hand pinching Hinata’s shoulder.

“What are you doing, dumbass?!”

Kageyama’s voice rings in his ears enough to hurt and Hinata winces away from it. He explains about his bike, about the lift, about getting here too early for even  _ practice  _ and that’s when Kageyama stands up.

“You’re not practicing.”

Hinata knows this. He’s been told so multiple times a day, by his parents and by Suga and Daichi with each visit they have paid him and by the doctor, too, when she called his mother to check on his progress. He’s been told, but it doesn’t stop him scrunching his face and clamping his fists at his sides.

“You can’t tell me what to do,  _ Bakayama _ .”

Something a little like relief flits over Kageyama’s face. It’s only there for a second, if even that, before he sets himself hard in a scowl and fists the strap of his bag where it rests over his chest.

“Idiot,” he says, and Hinata glares up at him. He shouldn’t; straining his eyes makes the back of his head throb something awful. “Are you even supposed to be back at school?”

“Yes,” he says, though he doesn’t really know if it’s true. He’s been playing off his aches and pains and the dizziness and the occasional bouts of nausea like they’re nothing, and maybe that’s part of the reason his parents have allowed him back to school when standing up for too long still makes him a little weak in the knees.

They walk –  _ walk _ \- to the gym together with their hands jammed in their pockets, and every now and then Hinata flicks his gaze to the side to see Kageyama glowering down at him, brows pulled so low Hinata isn’t even sure Kageyama can even see past them.

Suga shakes his head the minute he arrives.

“No,” he says, braces his hands on his hips and stares at Hinata. “No, you can’t be here.”

“My parents said it’s okay for me to come back,” he said, and then he adds, “and the doctor, too. I’m not going to  _ play _ -“

“Doesn’t matter.”

Hinata’s mouth drops open and flounders, and Suga’s face softens.

“You can’t be in the gym with us while we’re practicing,” he begins, and he cuts off Hinata’s protest with his palm pressed in the air between them, “it’s not worth risking getting hurt again. No, you’re not allowed in again until your symptoms are gone.”

Hinata’s whole body deflates like a balloon. Beside him, Kageyama stiffens, and Suga’s eyes fill with something so soft and so apologetic that Hinata almost feels guilty for letting himself be upset.

“I’m sorry,” Suga says, and he really does sound like he means it. “I’m sorry, we just don’t want anything else to happen. You’ll be able to play as soon as you’re all better, I promise.”  

“Where should I go, then?” His voice comes out more sullen and deadpan than he’d planned and Suga flinches at the sound of it. One hand comes up to scratch at the back of his neck and he looks around, from the gym to the main building before he says,

“Your classroom, I suppose. It’s only for today,” he adds, when Hinata nods and drags himself to his feet. “Then you’ll know to come in later until you’re all healed up.”

Hinata doesn’t have it in him to tell Suga that it’s not going to work like that. _Hinata_ doesn’t, but Kageyama does.

In the end, they can’t think of a good idea and Hinata, sitting at his desk with his head pillowed on his arms, resigns himself to the fact that this will be his morning routine for the foreseeable future.

* * *

The bus stop isn’t all that far from Hinata’s house, but the stop by the school is a good ten minute walk from the main gate. Not that Hinata minds; he enjoys a little fresh air and a little exercise. It’s not every day he gets to take the bus. Most days, in fact, his mother or father drive him to and from school but sometimes, they just can’t afford the time. Which is fine, because Hinata likes the bus, and he likes the walk and the fresh air and more than anything he likes the feel of the note he’s clutching in his palm today, all signed and sealed in black, swirly ink by a professional hand.

It’s been three weeks since he returned to school and his symptoms have, for the most part, calmed down. No more headaches, no more dizzy spells, no more nausea or confusion or any of the scary symptoms that were keeping him out of the gym and away from his team.

He throws open the doors with a grin and brandishes his letter at Takeda and Ukai the minute they round on him.

“See? The doctor signed it,” he says, rocks onto the balls of his feet and digs his nails into the hem of his jumper to stop his vibrating.

“You’re still not allowed to play,” Ukai says, frowns down at the note. “You’ve gotta ease back into it.”

And he does, one day at a time, pushes himself to take part more and more until he’s finally feeling like he’s integrated himself back in.

They watch him closely, all of them (except Tsukishima, maybe, but Hinata thinks he’s even caught him staring a time or two with his eyes pinched behind his glasses), but none more so than Kageyama. It’s a little weird, Kageyama being  _ concerned _ and all that, because he’s never really seen it before and he’s not sure how he’s supposed to deal with it. 

He supposes, though, that he should probably be grateful for their watchful eyes when he has the first seizure. 

It’s hot - blisteringly hot - and the entire team is tired and sweaty and panting through practice and it starts with just a little blur around the edges. It’s not enough to bother him all  _ that _ much; it’s irritating, more than anything, like a spot on a window that won’t wash away and Hinata wipes at his eyes, rubs them with the heels of his hands and the blur bubbles inwards. 

He rubs at them until they ache, presses in so hard pain spindles through his head. 

“Hinata?” 

It  _ hurts _ . His eyes hurt, a weird, sharp, stabbing pain that drills through his pupils and billows out behind his forehead. He presses the pads of his fingers into his brows and pushes hard. Maybe, he thinks, a desperate kind of panic rising in his chest, he can dig the pain out of he tries; claw his eyes right out of his skull and drag the ache away with them.

He doesn’t realise he’s making noises until Suga is shushing him, hands clamped around Hinata’s wrists to pull them away from his eyes and Hinata would look him in the face to thank him if it didn’t feel an awful lot like his eyes were rolling in their sockets. 

“Suga,” he says - it comes out a weak, thready kind of whimper - and he tries to free his hands to stop the movement but Suga’s grip is too tight, nails pinching into his skin. 

“Hinata,” Suga says again, sharp and strong but soothing, too, “Hinata, just calm down. You’re okay, but we’re gonna go sit down, alright?”

Suga steers him, pushes and pulls and nudges him in the right direction and when he tells him to sit, he does. The bench is hard and cold beneath his thighs and the wood creaks under his weight. 

“They hurt,” he says. His voice is shaky and unsteady and loud and he can’t mask the panic in it. “They  _ hurt _ , my-my eyes hurt.” 

“Okay,” Suga says. Hinata can imagine him nodding, focuses on the squeeze of his fingers around his wrists and the sound of his voice, anything to ignore the horrible, crawling feeling in his eyes. 

“They won’t stop moving.” 

Suga’s grip on him tightens, just for a moment, and when his voice seeps in it’s far away and Hinata’s head fills with something dead and vacant. 

He blinks himself out of it seconds later, it feels like, and when he does his body is rocking rhythmically and one of his hands is twisted in the front of his shirt. He’s biting his lip, again, and he lets it go and swallows back a mouthful of saliva, wipes the excess from his chin in a thick, heavy movement and lets his hands drop into his lap. 

He’s surrounded by faces. Suga’s is closest, kneeling in front of him with his elbows braced on his knees and his face turned up to look at Hinata’s, and Daichi has a hand on Suga’s shoulder to bend low enough to see him, too. The others are scattered, standing in pairs or threes and Hinata blinks between them, swallows a couple more times and looks back at Suga when his voice pipes up from the crowd. 

“Are you alright?” He asks. “Do you need to lie down?” 

Hinata swallows again. His tongue feels thick behind his teeth and for a minute all he can do is blink, swallow, repeat until he remembers how to form words. 

“No,” he says, shakes his head and rubs his palms over his thighs. “No, I’m okay. I’m okay.” 

He fumbles off a few apologies after that, quick and quiet and everybody waves them away and a million voices ask more questions, expect more answers. 

“Stop,” he says. Hinata rests his elbows on his knees and covers his eyes with his hands. “Please.” 

“Guys.” Daichi voices rings out and everybody stops, falls silent under his stare. “Give him room to breathe.” 

It takes a moment for his brain to clear but even when it does, he feels terrible. Guilty. Frustrated. He digs his fingers up into his hair and squeezes strands between them, pulls until it stings and tears well up in his eyes. 

“Hey, Kageyama,” Suga says, and for the first time Hinata registers the presence of a leg resting close to his own on the bench beside him. “Why don’t you take Hinata out for some fresh air?” 

Hinata twists his head to the side in time to see Kageyama’s stiff, single nod. He looks about as terrible as Hinata feels, honestly; all pale skin and wide eyes and set lips, and Hinata wonders if Suga is maybe sending Kageyama out for some fresh air, too. 

“Yeah,” Hinata says, before Kageyama can speak up. “Yeah, I’d like that, I think.” 

Kageyama finds a patch of grass in the shade of the gym wall and they sit, back to the stone, straight on the floor. Hinata feels marginally better now that he’s away from prying eyes, but there’s still a horrible pit of frustration welling in his stomach. 

“I,” he starts, clenches his fists in the fabric of his shorts, “I hoped that wouldn’t happen.” 

“Hah?” Kageyama’s brows drop into his usual frown and he stares down at Hinata. “You knew? That something like...like whatever the hell that was might happen?” 

Hinata tells him all he can remember about the seizures, between what the doctor told him at the hospital and the things he heard his parents talking about during his week at home and he finishes with a long, stormy kind of sigh and wraps his arms around his knees. 

“Will it stop you playing?” 

Honestly, Hinata hadn’t even thought about that.  _ Will _ the seizures stop him being able to play? Thinking about it knots a huge ball of anxiety in his stomach, so big he thinks he might throw it up then and there. 

“No,” he says, more to reassure himself than anything else. “No, I’ll still play.” 

He’s antsy, toes tapping and fingers pinching at his own skin and he can feel a horrible well of panic setting in when one of Kageyama’s hands unpicks his fingers and presses palm to palm with his own. 

For a second, Hinata just stares. He stares at their hands, at the thread of Kageyama’s fingers, tan against the paleness of his own skin, and then he stares up at Kageyama, at the pink dusting over his cheeks and the way his eyes are trained somewhere far, far away from the two of them. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, and Kageyama turns to look at him. He opens his mouth, flounders, then clears his throat and tries again but before he has a chance to get a word out, Takeda rounds the corner. 

“Hinata,” he says, smiles softly and Kageyama yanks his hand away and rubs it over his shorts. Takeda picks his way over and crouches in front of them, and when he speaks it’s in this weird, gentle tone, like he’s talking to a lost child. “I called your parents. Your mother is going to come pick you up now, alright?” 

Hinata’s palms start to sweat. He knows what this means - it means an emergency doctors visit, it means more big words he doesn’t understand and tests with results that make no sense and the doctor might actually, really tell him that he can’t play volleyball anymore. 

“Alright,” he says, swallows thickly, and beside him Kageyama clambers to his feet. Something on his face looks...weird, pinched, almost, like he’s swallowing something bitter. Hinata climbs to his feet, too, and follows Takeda back to the gym to collect his things and wait. 

* * *

The waiting room is loud and hot and Hinata jumps his knees and presses his hands beneath his thighs to hide their shaking. His mother hasn’t stopped fussing since picking him up from school, not even after the reassurances from Hinata, from Takeda and Ukai and from the whole team that everything is okay, that nothing bad happened. She picks a stray hair from Hinata’s shoulder and dusts it down, rubs her hand down his arm and picks at his jacket.

“Are you warm enough?” She asks, and Hinata nods. “You’re shaking. Do you feel okay?” 

“Fine,” he says, offers his sunniest smile. “Just nervous.” 

By the time they’re finally called through, nervous is an understatement. The doctor ushers them in with her usual smile, closes the door and offers them a seat and a cup of water. Hinata declines the latter, but his quaking knees drop him into the nearest chair and he bites at his nails while the doctor sits down, too. 

“Alright,” she says, after the briefest of niceties are shared with Hinata’s mother. “Could you describe the episode for me, in as much detail as you can remember.” 

Hinata does, though things are a little fuzzy. He doesn’t remember all that many specifics; he remembers something going wrong with his eyes and he remembers the pain and the panic, and after that things are hazy until Suga asking Kageyama to take him outside. 

“Okay,” says the doctor, slow and measured as she scribbles down the last of his recount. “Okay.” 

There’s a long talk, after that, about drugs and therapies and a whole host of other things and Hinata, for the most part, lets it flow between his mother and the doctor. There is only one question burning in his mind and he’s just waiting for the opportunity to voice it. 

“Obviously the last thing we want to resort to is surgery,” the doctor says, “but if the seizures reach a point where they are too challenging to manage with medication, or we feel that they are putting you at any serious kind of risk we can discuss it as a final option.” 

In the end, the doctor and his mother - with some minimal input on Hinata’s part (mostly nods and hums and the occasional yes or no) - they decide on a course of medication to try. They talked through  _ thousands _ , it felt like, and each one had some kind of terrible, obscure risk that had Hinata’s mother shaking her head until the list was done and the doctor took them back through the least scary, most effective ones. The final contender is a drug called Dilantin. It’s not so nasty, but there’s a great long list of common side effects that remind Hinata so much of the early weeks after The Accident that he almost says no when the doctor asks if he’s happy with the choice. 

Instead, though, he says, 

“Will I still be able to play volleyball?” 

The doctor looks down at her notes. Hinata’s mother picks at the skin around her fingers, purses her lips and recrosses her legs. There’s this big, collective sigh between the two of them, and the doctor looks up from her desk. 

“There’s a risk,” she says, and for the first time Hinata has all of his attention on her, “of the partial seizures developing into a generalized seizures.” 

“But can I still play?” 

The doctor looks to his mother and back again. 

“There’s no reason for you to stop, entirely,” she says, “but there  _ is _ reason for you to be cautious. If you have a partial seizure, you need to let somebody know, and make sure they know what to do to help you, and to look after you if the seizure develops.” 

“It might be easier if you don’t play.” 

Hinata takes his eyes from the doctor to his mother and his mouth gapes. She’s still not looking at him, hands wringing together in her lap. 

“Just,” she says, “just until you get them under control. Once they’re more manageable…” 

“What if that doesn’t happen?” 

Hinata feels a horrible sense of disbelief in his gut. His mother has always been  _ more _ than supportive of him, of his aspirations, and he never for one second believed anything would ever, ever change that. 

Apparently, concussing himself bad enough to permanently damage his brain had never crossed his mind. 

“Mum,” he says, looks at the doctor and back again, “the doctor said I can play.” 

“You need to be careful, Shouyou.” 

“I will be,” he says, “I will be, I promise.” 

“You might get hurt again.” 

“I won’t.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

There’s a big, shouty argument that follows and all the while the doctor sits with her hands steepled under her chin. It ends with Hinata’s arms folded over his chest, bottom lip caught between his teeth and his eyes swimming. 

“I’m looking out for you,” she says, “I don’t ever want to see my son like that again. I want to keep you safe.” 

The doctor lowers her palms to the table and smiles, soft and warm, and looks at Hinata’s mother. 

“He’s as much at risk of injuring himself through seizures in class as he is playing sports,” she says. “It’s important to let him get on with things as normally as possible. He doesn’t need more disruptions to his routine.” 

Hinata’s mother looks a little like she wants to argue but the doctor turns away, addresses Hinata with her pen tapping between her fingers. 

“So,” she says, “we’ll get you a prescription and see how the medication goes. If the side effects are too much, or you seize frequently even with the meds, we’ll make another appointment and discuss some more options.” 

It’s very final, and they leave with the prescription slip and a detailed reminder of the daily dosage. 

They don’t talk in the car, not until they’re home, and Hinata’s mother gives a deep sigh and cuts off the engine. 

“I’m going to call the faculty advisor in the morning,” she says. “I don’t want you to play right now.” 

* * *

It’s been an awful long time since Hinata locked himself in his bedroom.

There was more shouting when they got inside, so much Hinata’s head hurt, but his mother didn’t budge. No volleyball, she said, not until the seizures stop. He tried arguing that he’s only had one since he left the hospital -  _ one _ \- and that there might not even  _ be _ anymore but it’s not worth the risk, she said. 

It’s not worth the risk. He isn’t allowed back on the court until his broken brain is mended. 

He sniffles when his phone buzzes beside his pillow, wipes at his cheeks and blinks back more tears to see the notification on the screen. Kageyama. 

_ What did the doctor say? _

Hinata shuffles to prop himself on his pillows, fits the phone in his hands and twiddles his thumbs. 

_ She put me on some meds. She says I’m still allowed to play, but Mum won’t let me _ . 

Hinata sends the message and drops the phone in his lap. No more volleyball.  _ Ever _ , maybe, if the medication doesn’t work. 

He can’t even bring himself to read Kageyama’s reply, not when the first message beeps through, or the second, or the third, and the first time the phone rings he ignore that, too, but the second he scoops it up and answers the call without even looking to see who it is. 

“I’m not in the mood to talk, Kageyama.” 

“Hinata?” 

Hinata picks the phone from the side of his head and stares at it. Suga’s name decorates the screen and the calltime flashes below, counts up each second he spends just staring before his name filters through the space, muffled by the distance. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I thought you were Kageyama.” 

“No, but he did call me to tell me he was worried about you.” 

Hinata picks at a thread on his bedding and curls up on one side. His mind turns to Kageyama, to the constant stares and the questions and the hand-holding. 

“Suga,” he says, and he tells him about Kageyama taking his hand outside the gym, linking their fingers like they do it every day and for a while, Suga sits quiet on the line. 

“Do you remember much of the accident?” 

“No,” Hinata says. “Not really. I mean, bits and pieces, I guess. I remember being in pain and stuff, but other than that...it’s just the stuff I’ve been told. Why?” 

“No real reason,” Suga says, though he sounds like he’s thinking something over even as he talks. “More importantly, what’s Kageyama worried over?” 

So Hinata tells him about the volleyball situation, about what the doctor said and what his mother said and the more he talks the more his body feels drained. He doesn’t  _ want _ to cry on the phone with Suga, but by the time he’s done he’s struggling to keep the choke from his voice. 

“Oh,” Suga says. And everything falls quiet. Hinata can’t really blame him for not knowing what to say, and he’s about to tell him so when a message buzzes through. He pulls the phone away far enough to see the notification and Kageyama’s name pops onto the screen. 

“I should go,” Hinata says. “Kageyama’s texting me and I don’t  _ want _ him to worry.” 

“Alright,” Suga starts, and after a beat he adds, “Just so you know, Hinata, Kageyama was really,  _ really _ worried about you when it happened. He was scared, I think, just as much as the rest of us.” 

They say their goodbyes and Hinata hangs up with a frown on his face. It’s just...it’s difficult to imagine Kageyama being  _ worried _ \- maybe about volleyball, but not about  _ him _ \- but it makes something weirdly hot flare up in his stomach at the thought of it. 

The message says,  _ Did Suga call you? Stop ignoring me,  _ and the one before says,  _ oi, idiot, text me back _ , and before that he’d said  _ maybe we can talk her out of it? You should be able to play _ , and  _ are you alright? _

Hinata spends an unreasonable time staring at that last one. 

He taps back a quick yes, Suga called me and yes, I’m alright and yeah, I’d really like that I wanna keep playing, and he's just hit send when there’s a knock at his door and his mother’s voice calls through. 

“Shouyou, it’s time for dinner. And you shouldn’t be locking your door, not anymore.” 

* * *

It isn’t Hinata that talks his mother around, or Kageyama, or anybody from the team and it’s not even the  _ doctor _ that gets through to her.

It’s Natsu. 

It’s a little over a week since Hinata started on the new medication and honestly, for the most part, he feels terrible. There have been no more seizures, thus far, but there is a boatload of fatigue and more headaches than his life is worth, and he’s always been a little on the jittery side but things over the last week have been bordering on ridiculous. 

Hinata flips to his side on the sofa and fluffs the cushion beneath his head. He’s exhausted, physically and mentally and emotionally, too. A whole week without volleyball - a whole week of knowing he might never go  _ back _ to volleyball. Hinata doesn’t think he’s ever felt so miserable. 

“Mum,” Natsu says, and Hinata blinks his eyes fully open to spy his mother and his sister across the room. His mother is kneeling in front of the fire with Natsu’s hair twisting around her fingers. 

“Mm?” 

“How come Shou can’t play volleyball anymore?” 

Hinata bristles, stares at the pair of them and flips back over onto his other side, eyes trained on a single red thread in amongst the cream upholstery. 

“Because he might get hurt again if he does,” she says. Natsu sits silent for a while, and then, 

“But...but he’s  _ sad _ now.” 

“Of course he is,” his mother says, and Hinata is pleased at least to hear the trace of guilt in her tone, “he can’t do something he loves anymore. But it’s better to keep him safe, don’t you think?” 

There’s another quiet moment where Natsu is thinking, and when she finally does speak again her voice sounds muffled, like she’s hiding her mouth behind her hands. 

“What’s the point in being safe if he’s gonna be sad all the time?” 

There’s a big long moment of  _ nothing _ , no noise from his mother or from Natsu and then she says, quiet and thoughtful and caught up in her throat, 

“You think so, huh?" 

"Yeah," Natsu says. "Isn't it better to just be happy?" 

"I suppose." 

She doesn't sound all that convinced and Hinata thinks it's honestly a great big lost cause, but then she speaks again in a weird, thick kind of voice. 

"I guess I’d better let him play, then.”

Hinata whips off the couch in seconds, stops in front of his mother with huge, wide eyes and the most hopeful expression he can muster and she gives him this big, sad, watery smile. 

“I  _ need _ you to be careful, Shouyou.” Her voice is all choked up like she’s trying not to cry and Hinata thinks she probably is, so he nods so hard his head hurts and wraps his arms around her neck, crushing Natsu’s little giggling body between them. 

“I’ll make a list,” he promises, words muffled by her hair, “I’ll make a really long list of things everybody should know, and i’ll make sure everybody reads it so I’m always safe with them. I promise I’ll be careful. Thank you.”

When Hinata leaves for school the next morning it’s with a skip in his step and a sheet of paper clutched tight in his palm. 

* * *

He’s not even _ playing _ volleyball when he has the second seizure.

It’s lunch time, and Hinata is packing away his books and grabbing his bento when he feels his eyelids start to flutter. It’s odd, uncontrolled, and Hinata has a horrible rising feeling in his stomach like it’s about to jump out of his throat and it comes with this desperate, frantic kind of panic. He abandons his bento without a thought, slips from the room and pushes into a jog down the hallway. 

He’s outside Kageyama’s classroom before he realises where he is. 

He doesn’t even know  _ why _ . Maybe it’s because Kageyama is closest, or maybe he didn’t even mean to be there, or maybe it’s because he can’t stop thinking about Kageyama being worried about him but whatever the reason, he stops in the doorway and croaks Kageyama’s name before his mind starts to empty. 

He’s on the floor when he comes around. 

The corridor is quiet, empty save for himself and Kageyama and his back is propped against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him with the inside toes of his shoes pressed together. His head feels full and fuzzy and his lip stings from where he’s been chewing but this time, his hand isn’t twisted in his shirt. 

It’s fisted in Kageyama’s jacket. 

The fabric around his fingers is all scrunched and creased, and he has to think hard to loosen his grip and let his hand drop. There’s no drool on his chin, this time, though his mouth feels full of it and he swallows it down and wipes at his mouth anyway. 

“I don’t,” he starts, clears his throat and blinks at Kageyama, “how did we get here?” 

He’s not seizing, he knows he isn’t, but his fingers keep balling up and relaxing at his sides and there’s a weird kind of confused terror clawing at his chest. 

“Walked,” Kageyama says. His face is white and his fingers are shaking. “I asked if you wanted to sit, but you just started walking and the website I looked at said not to stop you moving unless I had to.” 

It’s a weird kind of shock to his system that Kageyama did his research, but what’s more pressing is the sickly nervous energy bubbling in his stomach and the way his hands keep clenching. 

“You’re fine,” Kageyama says. It’s gruff, not gentle like Suga’s voice, but it soothes him nonetheless (more so, maybe) and Hinata nods his head. He’s fine. Kageyama is with him. 

He tightens his fist hard enough to dig his nails into his palm and when he loosens his grip once more, Kageyama fits their hands together again. 

It does something weird, this time. It’s like something calm and cool is melting from the tips of his fingers right down his arm, spreading over his chest and soothing the fast, hard beat of his heart against his ribs. Kageyama’s fingers squeeze at his and Hinata’s squeeze back, and after a little while the remainder of his panic sinks away to be replaced with the deepest kind of exhaustion Hinata has felt since the first weeks after The Accident. 

“Why did you do that,” Hinata says. He nods his head at their joined hands, and Kageyama shrugs a shoulder, shifts to sit with his legs crossed in front of Hinata and smooths out his crumpled jacket. 

“It helped,” he says, “last time.” 

“Oh.” 

Hinata sort of wishes he remembered. Nothing he can do, though, and instead he just lets Kageyama hold his hand and he breathes and breathes and breathes until he’s ready to get up. 

They grab their lunches silently. Both the students in Kageyama’s class and in Hinata’s stare at them as they go in and Kageyama shoots glares at the kids who start whispering behind their hands. Hinata feels weirdly safe, with Kageyama at his side, and they make their way out to their regular bench in a peaceful kind of quiet. 

“What does it mean that you had another one?” Kageyama asks, after a while. Hinata props his chopsticks over his food and stretches out his legs. 

“Don’t know,” he says. “Nothing, I don’t think. I haven’t been on the meds long and I don’t know how long they take to start...working, I guess? ‘M not sure.” 

He knows he’ll probably have to tell his mother, and he knows she’ll probably fuss, and he knows he should tell the team at practice and that he might have to take things easier and the frustration of the entire situation wells up in him so quickly he doesn’t even realise he’s jumping to his feet until his lunch spills over the floor. 

“Oi,” Kageyama says, a little wary. “Look what you did, idiot.” 

Hinata doesn’t listen, just slaps his fists to his sides and paces in front of the bench. 

“This is just,” he starts, “the worst, most stupid situation and I might have to deal with it for the rest of my life? I might have to live on drugs that make me feel horrible and I’m gonna be tired and my head is gonna hurt and-” he stops, sucks in a breath and whirls around, “-and if the drugs don’t work, and the next ones don’t work, and the ones after  _ that _ don’t work they might have to cut out a little piece of my  _ brain _ so I’m not…not…not  _ broken  _ anymore!” 

“You’re not broken,” Kageyama says, and it’s loud enough and fierce enough that it drowns out Hinata’s shouting and he stops his pacing to stare at him. Kageyama’s cheeks flare a little red. “You’re fine, it’s just another thing you have to deal with. Like being short. Or being a dumbass.” 

“Who are you calling dumbass, dumbass?” 

Kageyama doesn’t even argue back, which is equal parts weird and relieving because Hinata is too tired for a fight, even a fight with Kageyama. He drops back onto the bench and stares at the spilled contents of his lunch. 

“Here,” Kageyama says, slides his half finished bento onto Hinata’s lap, chopsticks and all and tacks on a quiet, “idiot.” 

Hinata eats quietly, and when he’s done he lets his head drop onto Kageyama’s shoulder - he’s surprisingly yielding beneath him, like a big, warm Kageyama-scented pillow - and closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

He’s asleep in no time, but not before Kageyama slips his hand against his and knots their fingers together on his thigh. 

* * *

Despite the doctor telling him that seizing is still normal, that it might take the medication a little while to start making a difference, Hinata is still in a bad mood. He’s still tired, and restless, and the ache in his head is near constant and the announcement of a weekend training camp in Tokyo is just what he needs to lift his spirits. 

“You’ll have to be careful,” his mother says, checking and double checking Hinata’s medication is all where it should be in his pill box. “Make sure your friends know, if you’re going to be with people from the other teams.” 

“I will, I will.” He can’t even bring it in him to be  _ really _ annoyed about her coddling; he’s too excited, honestly, and even the headache feels a little lighter. A weekend - a whole  _ four days _ \- away with his team, with the players from Nekoma and new players from new teams is about one of the most exciting things that’s ever happened to him, ever. 

The bus journey is...less than he expected. He wanted to have  _ fun _ , to be awake and alert with everybody else because they’re all too hyped up to sleep but he takes his pill before boarding the coach and next thing he knows they’re stopping again and it’s light out, and he’s been dripping a steady patch of drool on Kageyama’s shoulder for hours. 

Friday and Saturday pass by in a blur of games and practice and food and sleep and there really isn’t much time for anything else. Not that he’s complaining; they’re there to practice, after all, to gain experience and get better and it’s a bonus that he gets to spend time with his friends, but it’d be nice to have some wind down time because by the time Sunday morning rolls around he is truly, completely exhausted. 

He almost cries when Kageyama shakes him awake. 

“Dumbass, time to get up.” 

Hinata presses his face into his pillow and groans. It’s too early, he’s too tired, there hasn’t been time to catch up on extra sleep and he knows from the start that this is very bad, very not good, the kind of situation that puts his poor brain at greater risks and he knows he should tell somebody. 

He should have some self-discipline. He should just...just tell Kageyama right now, at this minute, that he’s too tired and he needs another hour or two sleep, maybe. That it’s the medication. That it will be bad for his head if he pushes himself too hard. 

But he’s never had any restraint, not where volleyball is concerned. 

He barely remembers stumbling down to breakfast. He’s not even sure he  _ eats _ , honestly, but he isn’t hungry when he’s changing for their warm-ups and he isn’t hungry while he and Kageyama run laps outside. 

Kageyama, for his part, keeps pace with Hinata rather than racing ahead. Hinata is thankful, really, because he wouldn’t have it in him to try and catch up if Kageyama went much faster. 

“Are you okay?” Kageyama asks when their final lap is done, mopping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt and bracing a hand on his hip. “We barely ran at all.” 

Hinata shrugs, props his arm over his eyes to shield himself from the glare of the sun overhead. He’s lying in the dew-damp grass, legs too tired to stand. 

“I’m really tired,” he says.  _ Halfway there _ , he thinks,  _ just tell him you might need the morning off to rest a little more.  _ “I need to go easy in the early games.” 

He doesn’t need to talk to the others, after that. With Kageyama as the control tower, Hinata doesn’t need to tell the others he’s tired because it’s Kageyama who calls the final shots and he’s sure not to use Hinata and their quick too often. 

Things are going fairly okay, for the first set. He doesn't do too much of anything, but Nekoma wins by a landslide, and a little twist of guilt starts winding in Hinata’s stomach. If he weren’t so tired….

“Kageyama.” 

Kageyama lowers his bottle and turns to face him. 

“We’ll do it more,” he says, “the quick. For the next set.” 

Kageyama looks him up and down and stares him right in the eye for a moment. 

“You’re too tired,” he says, and Hinata shushes him with a frantic kind of wave when Suga’s gaze turns in their direction. 

“I’m fine now,” he lies. His head is starting to ache. Really  _ really  _ ache. “We can’t lose to Nekoma  _ again,  _ not when this is the last time we’ll play them.” 

Kageyama still doesn’t look too convinced but Hinata pushes him with a beg, grips his sleeve in his fist and pleads for all he’s worth that Kageyama won’t let him be useless and Kageyama - though still somewhat reluctant - caves. 

Which, as it turns out, is a Very Large Mistake. 

It’s on the set point that it happens. 

The quick works perfectly, flawlessly; Hinata jumps at a great big clear patch of net, closes his eyes and swings his arm and his hand connects with a thwack that is mirrored as the ball hits the floor on the other side of the net. 

Except, when Hinata opens his eyes, the room is still very, very dark. 

Black. 

He stumbles amid the yells of his team when his feet catch the floor, listens to them scream their victory and fumbles for the net between his fingers. 

He can’t see. He can’t  _ see _ . 

He’s starting to sweat, grips the rope in his hand and squeezes, tries hard to remember whether sudden blindness was on the list of seizure symptoms the doctor told him and  _ god _ why didn’t he pay attention? 

It’s not a Karasuno voice that notices him first. 

“Shouyou?” Kenma says, and Hinata feels skin touch his fingers where they’re clasped in the net. It shocks him, enough to make him jump, send him reeling back on unsteady feet and he still can’t  _ see _ . 

He levels his arms out to keep his balance and blinks hard and fast. Nothing changes; the gym remains in complete darkness, and Hinata’s head is spinning and aching and he doesn’t even know which way is up. 

“Something’s wrong with Shouyou.” Kenma’s voice rings out louder than Hinata has ever heard it. The Karasuno cheers die and multiple pairs of feet move towards him. Too many hands touch him. 

“Don’t,” he says, cringes away and trips over his own toes and his body careens down, but a pair of hot, sweat-slick arms catch him before he has time to fall far. 

“Hinata?” 

“I can’t see,” he says, and now that he’s safe with Kageyama he lets the panic choke it’s way out of him. “I can’t see, I can’t  _ see _ .” 

“It’s okay,” Kageyama says, “it happens, it said on the website.” 

“I can’t see.” 

“I know. It’s okay. Do you wanna sit down?” 

“I can’t  _ see _ .” 

The next thing Hinata knows, he’s lying on his side on his futon in their room. Kageyama is lying opposite him, eyes flicking back and forth over his face and their hands are clasped in the space between them. Hinata sighs out a tiny, relieved kind of breath and squeezes Kageyama’s fingers. 

“Feel better?” 

Hinata swallows. He’s not really sure  _ how _ he feels; he doesn’t remember anything from losing his sight on the court to right now, but he doesn’t feel entirely sluggish, either, not like he’s just come around and he tells Kageyama so with his fingers clenching and unclenching around Kageyama’s. 

“You’ve been out of the seizure ten minutes, maybe?” He says, gives one squeeze of his hand. “You cried, a lot. Panicked until you couldn't breathe. And you threw up, and then you said you were really tired so we brought you up here to get some rest.” 

Now that Kageyama’s said it he has vague memories of losing his breakfast, but...his eyes slide down to Kageyama’s bare feet and back again. 

“Did I-” 

“-throw up on my shoes? Yeah. You did.” 

Hinata turns his flaming cheek into his pillow. 

“Sorry.” 

His voice comes out all hoarse and sleepy and he repeats himself over and over until Kageyama shuffles a little closer in the space between them and reaches out his free hand to tug Hinata’s blanket a little further up his shoulder. 

“You’re being weird,” Hinata says, the words slipping out before he can stop them. Kageyama flicks him on the forehead and ruffles his fingers into his hair. 

“I’m being  _ nice _ ,” he says, “don’t get used to it.” 

They fall into this nice, comfortable silence with their hands pinched together and their breath mingling in the space between them. It’s warm and it’s soothing, and Kageyama cracks into the quiet with a few tiny, reluctant-sounding words. 

“You went really weird, this time,” he says. “Your knees gave out like you couldn’t stand up anymore and you kept  _ saying _ it.” 

“Saying what?” 

“That you couldn’t see anything,” Kageyama says. “I tried calming you down like Suga does, like, telling you things are okay and stuff but it didn’t help.” 

Hinata stares at Kageyama’s eyelids where they’ve slid closed, all bunched up like he’s remembering something he really doesn’t want to think about. 

“It’s okay,” Hinata says, and he shuffles over until there’s no space between them at all. “You do help. Even though you’re a really big, stupid idiot, you do help.” 

He’s getting drowsy even as he says it, with the feel of Kageyama’s breath blowing over his face and the tip of his nose ghosting against Hinata's and the warmth of his body seeping through the fabric of the blanket between them, and he falls asleep just like that, with Kageyama’s hand still held tight in his own. 

* * *

The new medication is a whole  _ tonne _ better. The only real side effect is a little dizziness, now and then, but it’s usually only when he gets out of bed too suddenly or when he hasn’t eaten enough,  _ and _ it makes a huge difference to the seizures.

He still has the odd one - usually what the doctor calls a simple partial seizure - and they normally only last a couple of seconds but it’s nothing,  _ nothing _ compared to before. 

There’s still a lot of worry, though, from the team. For the most part, it doesn’t even bother him; it’s just stares during practice when he’s wearing himself down, knocks on the door at lunch to check he’s got enough packed in his bento and, maybe the worst one, a companion to walk him to the bus stop each and every night. 

He’s still not allowed to ride his bike, not until they’ve made enough progress to think about weaning him off the medication, but his parents relented enough to let him take the bus morning and night. Because of the distance between the stop and the school, the team have taken to finding weird excuses for one of them to walk with him each and every night after practice. 

Most nights it’s Suga or Daichi but the others take their turn, too; Yamaguchi tells him he’s going to the dentist, Noya tells him he has a bus to catch, too, and Tanaka tells him he’s meeting a girl a little way past the stop and they might as well walk together, right? 

Hinata was suspicious  _ anyway,  _ because not a single one of them even live in the same direction as the bus stop, but it’s Tsukishima that finally tells him what he’s being thinking all along. 

“I’m only doing this,” he says, hands in his pockets and his headphones looped around his neck, “because nobody wants you to die on the way home and it’s my turn to make sure you don’t.” 

“Thanks for caring,” Hinata says, and when Tsukishima ticks his tongue against his teeth Hinata sticks out his tongue and folds his arms. 

“It was Kageyama’s idea,” Tsukishima says, and Hinata’s mouth drops open. 

“Really?” It comes out a little more excited than surprised and Tsukishima gives him this weird, knowing look before he jams his headphones over his ears and turns up his music. 

It’s the next day when Hinata calls him out on it. 

“Kageyama!” He says, stands in the doorway to the club room with his feet wide apart and one long, accusatory finger jutting in Kageyama’s direction. Kageyama gives him a deadpan stare and shoves his shirt over his head. 

“What?” 

“Did you get the team to start walking me to the bus stop so I wouldn’t die on the way?” 

Kageyama pauses in zipping up his bag. 

“You did! You did. Why didn’t you tell me,  _ Bakayama! _ ” 

Kageyama swings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, marches to the door and drags Hinata away by the elbow. It’s not until they’re out of the school gates that he says a word. 

“I know you didn’t want people fussing,” Kageyama says. “But I- _ we’re  _ all worried.” 

Hinata’s mouth spreads in a sly smile and he covers it with the tips of his fingers. 

“Yamayama,” he says, and Kageyama turns sharp eyes on him, “you were worried about me?” 

Kageyama shakes his head, and then nods, and then he frowns and his lips pull down in a grimace like he isn’t sure what he’s meant to be doing with his face. 

“You’re allowed to be, you know. Worried.” Hinata grins, swings his arm and catches Kageyama’s hand as he does. Kageyama’s face burns bright red and Hinata smiles wider still, stretches up on his toes and smacks a clumsy kiss on Kageyama’s cheek. “That’s what boyfriends _do_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is more curious; because of a little scarring to his brain, Hinata starts suffering from complex partial seizures. They usually begin in the occipital lobe - where the scarring is - and spread to affect the temporal lobes, which results in the repetitive movements like rocking, pinching his clothes, lip biting and the vacant staring. Some of the things that happen in the fic - like Suga forcibly moving him to sit - are things you shouldn't do to somebody having a focal seizure unless it's necessary for their own safety and there are other things that they do that they probably shouldn't, but I kept it as accurate as I could!! 
> 
> Anyways thank you all again so much this has been a really cool fun fic to write and please let me know if you guys enjoyed it!! Also come follow me on tumblr @ someone-stole-my-shoes to talk more about kagehina with me so I don't have to unload all my fic ideas on my three kagehina friends


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how hard he tries, Kageyama just can’t stop thinking about it.
> 
> It happens like this every night; a little reminder trickles in, oozes out from some deep, dark hole in the back of his mind, billows and blooms like storm clouds until Kageyama’s mind is full, thick and heavy and there is barely enough room for his brain in amongst the mess.
> 
> Tonight, it starts with a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE I spent a lot of yesterday thinking about how Kageyama would deal with things in the aftermath of this, and this is the end result - this fic has been SUCH a wonderful journey and I've learned an awful lot writing it and honestly, I never want it to end, so here you go--just a little more, if anyone is still interested.

No matter how hard he tries, Kageyama just can’t stop _thinking_ about it.

It happens like this every night; a little reminder trickles in, oozes out from some deep, dark hole in the back of his mind, billows and blooms like storm clouds until Kageyama’s mind is full, thick and heavy and there is barely enough room for his brain in amongst the mess.

Tonight, it starts with a sound.

It’s innocent enough, the crack of his phone where he drops it to the desk. There’s nothing dangerous about it, nothing threatening, really, but Kageyama’s body seizes from head to toe the moment metal hits wood.

He stops, breathes, squeezes his eyes to pressure the first panicky little tendrils back where they came from, but the spread is too fast, too strong, swallows him whole until all he can hear is that sound, over and over, crack crack _crack_.

And there he is, just like always.

Hinata lies crumpled on the court, unmoving, unseeing, silent save for the big, echoing _snap_ of his head on the floor.

Kageyama sucks in a breath and fists the bedsheets in his hands. Hinata is _fine_ ; he tells himself so every night, stuck like a broken record ticking over _Hinata is fine, Hinata is fine, Hinata is fine Hinata is fine fine fine fine_ until he is shaking, shuddering, sweat beading over his brow.

The smoke in his brain spills out to fill his mouth, his throat, chokes the air from his lungs and occupies all the empty spaces until Kageyama can’t even breathe for it.

There’s no stopping it once it’s begun. All Kageyama can do is wait it out, and most nights, that means lying until the morning comes with nothing in his mind but Hinata, down and out on the gym floor, and the ghost of the sound he makes when he hits the ground.

* * *

The weird thing about it all is, it didn’t start right away. There was a big, long break, months and months of nothing, of Kageyama being perfectly fine, of Hinata getting better, and then one day—the weather was cold, damp and dismal, rain pattering in big, heavy drops over the pavement—Hinata shouldn’t have been riding his bike home.

There was no _prompting_ , no obvious risk and no blatant danger, but for some reason, Kageyama just...he just _knew_ that Hinata shouldn’t be on that bike.

He could slip, or fall, or maybe get run down by a car—it was dark, they might not even see him—and what if he hit his head again? The cocktail of medication he’s on for his seizures now is _working_ , he’s doing better, they’re even starting to ween him off it all, so what if something happens that throws him off all over again?

The thoughts made him itch. He continued to walk in silence while Hinata blabbered on at his side, pushing along that stupid bike, treading his feet through big, full puddles and splashing water up both of their legs.

It was odd, walking alongside him, with Hinata running a constant stream of careless words and random thoughts, while the inside of his own head was filled with only one thing; don’t let him ride that damn bike home. He’ll fall. He’ll _die_.

But then they were at the turn off, and Hinata was stretching up to peck at Kageyama’s cheek, and he was waving his goodbye, and Kageyama’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He needed to say something, _anything_ , but somewhere between his brain and his body, a wire had been cut. There was no connection; no joint between thought and action, and as much as he _wanted_ to reach out, to say something, the words wouldn’t come.

His fists remained clenched firm at his sides, jaw shut so tight his teeth _ached_ , and Hinata mounted his bike and kicked himself off, through the pouring rain, around the corner and out of sight.

That was two weeks ago.

Since then, it’s been a constant niggle in the back of his mind.

It’s not all that often Hinata is even _allowed_ to ride his bike. Only on the really, really good days, when his head feels light and clear and alert, and even then, he’s maybe only done it three or four times total—because “You still have to be careful, Shouyou,” and, “your brain’s still a little banged up, take it easy,”—but honestly, Kageyama wishes _not all that often_ was something more like _not at all_.

And it’s not just the bike, anymore.

It’s...it’s an awful lot of things. The way he skips around in the hallways sets Kageyama on edge, when he hops and jumps indoors—the school ceilings are too _low_ , not built for people like Hinata, people with springs for legs and bruises on the brain—and, perhaps the worst one of all, volleyball.

Kageyama is starting to _hate_ that Hinata still plays volleyball.

It’s _stupid_ , so stupid, because he used to be worried that Hinata wouldn’t ever be able to play again, but now, he...sort of wishes that were the case.

He hates himself for it, too, because Hinata would be absolutely miserable without volleyball. He’d be all sad and sullen like he was in the weeks he wasn’t allowed to play, and Kageyama doesn’t ever, ever want to see him like that again.

But he also doesn’t ever, ever want to see him on the gym floor again, in the hospital again, weak and brittle and _broken_ again.

And as if that weren’t enough—if the constant worry, the _fear_ whenever Hinata so much as moves too vigorously weren’t enough—there’s also the nightmares.

Perhaps, really, _nightmare_ isn’t the best way to describe the horrible memories that haunt him, because nightmare would imply that he were sleeping. And Kageyama hasn’t had a decent night's sleep in the two weeks since that first bout of panic really hit him.

It’s...strange. None of it is particularly overwhelming, but it is there, ever-present, like the slow, steady drip-drip-drip of a leaky tap. The problem is, Kageyama is a basin with a stopper in the plughole, and even if the drip-drip-drip is slow, the water is building, and it’s only a matter of time, surely, before some of it, at least, starts spilling over the sides.

The first overflow happens on a Thursday.

Hinata is having a less-than-okay day. He hasn’t said anything, not out loud, but from the moment they meet in the morning, Kageyama can tell something is not quite right.

The first clue is that when Hinata meets him at the school gates, it is on his feet, and coming from the direction of the bus stop. The second is that every move he makes is slow, measured, tiny steps on unsteady legs and shoulders bunched tight and high by his ears.

He smiles in greeting, but it is bare, weak and a little wobbly, and there’s a funny pinch to his eyes and a set to his jaw as he stops, standing just a step closer than usual and tilting to rest his forehead against Kageyama’s shoulder.

“Headache,” is all he says, when Kageyama grunts his question. Kageyama reaches up a palm and smooths it down Hinata’s back. He’s cautious in his touch, afraid Hinata might smash into a thousand tiny, irreparable pieces beneath his rough palm.

“Bad?” He asks, and Hinata hums. “Words, dumbass,” Kageyama grumbles, because a hum is neither a yes nor a no, and it works his nerves, not knowing.

“Yeah.”

Hinata breathes out his response, quiet and muffled where his mouth presses to Kageyama’s jacket.

It’s not the first time he’s had a bad day since starting the new medication, but it’s not a common occurrence either—infrequent enough that today, it sets Kageyama on edge. The tension winds its way from the middle and out, starting at his gut and wending to his arms, his legs, across his shoulders and up his neck, and Hinata must feel it because he pulls back and forces a little smile.

“It’s fine,” he says, steps back to stand on his own. “It’s fine, don’t look so worried.”

Kageyama scowls. His fingers clench at his sides, but the impulse to reach out and grab, to punch and pull and prod is barely even there, anymore. He’s still a little too scared of breaking him to really even touch.

“Dumbass,” Kageyama says, “if you felt like shit you should have stayed home.”

“Vulgar! Don’t say _shit,_ Kageyama!” Hinata’s shout is followed by a wince, a big one, and a hand reaching up to rub right between his brows. Kageyama’s fight peters out, replaced by a little spike of fear and he turns, hiking his bag right up on his shoulder and nudging Hinata forward.

“C’mon, stupid,” he says, “we’re gonna be late.”

It’s only when they get to the clubroom that the panic starts dripping a little faster in him, because Hinata is dropping his bag, stripping his shirt, changing into his gym clothes and Kageyama is struck with a horrible realisation.

Even with this monstrous headache, Hinata still intends on practicing.

“No,” Kageyama says. Hinata peeks at him over the hem of his shirt as he pulls it down over his face. Kageyama shakes his head, and kicks off his shoes. “No way are you practicing. What kind of idiot are you?”

At first, Hinata doesn’t respond. He sits still and quiet while Kageyama changes, and only when Kageyama is picking up his shoes and his water bottle, ready to leave, does he say anything.

“It’ll be _fine_ , Kageyama,” he says, “I’ve played with worse.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have,” Kageyama says. The _drip-drip-drip_ gets faster, more incessant, and he can feel the well of panic filling in him.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s _dangerous_ ,” Kageyama spits. For a moment, Hinata just blinks at him. He stares, and blinks, and then he smiles, and reaches to pull on his shorts.

“Yeah, okay, _mom_ ,” Hinata says, and a small bubble of laughter trickles out of him. Kageyama’s fingers clench at his sides. It’s not _funny_ , he thinks. Not something to laugh at. Hinata didn’t have to see himself when the accident happened; he doesn’t have to remember it, remember the fear and the panic and the _sound_ he made when he hit the floor.

“You need to be careful,” Kageyama says. “Or you’re gonna hurt yourself again.”

Hinata stands, and stretches. He’s looking a little more lively, and Kageyama isn’t sure if it’s the prospect of volleyball or if he’s just faking, pretending to feel better to keep Kageyama off his back. Either way, it’s stupid, and he shouldn’t be playing today.

He shouldn’t be playing at _all_.

“Stupid,” Kageyama says. “Idiot.”

It’s vicious, venomous, so much so that Hinata starts at the sound of it. Kageyama doesn’t _want_ to get mad, he really, honestly doesn’t, but Hinata is being the stupidest person in the whole wide world, and Kageyama doesn’t want to see him get hurt again.

“I told you, _Bakageyama_ ,” Hinata says, “it’ll be _fine_. If I still don’t feel good in practice, I’ll stop, okay?”

Kageyama glowers down at him. He’d strap him to the bench if he could, he thinks; tie him down and keep him there so he can’t play, or maybe he’d just bubble wrap him, head to toe, so there’s no way he could bump or bruise or kill himself even if he _did_ get a chance to practice.

Hinata’s face twists from something a little on the soft side to something _sly,_ wicked, and he cups a hand over his mouth to hide his grin as he peers up at Kageyama from beneath his fringe.

“Yamayama,” he says, and Kageyama bristles at the nickname, “are you _worried_ about me?”

Kageyama storms out of the clubroom before Hinata can see the blush colouring his cheeks.

Hinata, to his credit, stays true to his word. He is firm with what he can and cannot do during practice, opting to run a few less laps and skip out on the diving drills, and after a few practice spikes he shakes his head and bows his sorry to Daichi before sitting on the bench and sipping from his water bottle.

Kageyama tries not to act too concerned. He tries, but it’s _hard_ , hard when alarm bells are ringing in every part of him. He finds himself watching every ball that flies through the gym as training goes on, hyper aware of where they all are in relation to where Hinata sits on the bench, Ukai on one side of him and Takeda on the other, exchanging soft, quiet words while the others practice on.

A time or two, a stray volleyball flies a little too close to him for comfort and each time Kageyama stiffens from head to toe, breath squashed tight in his lungs as his chest shrinks in, and only when the danger has passed does he relax, though only a little. There are still painful, knotted muscles lifting his shoulders, strained sinews in his neck, and the _drip-drip-drip_ of panic swelling like a river threatening to burst its banks.

* * *

As the days go on, Kageyama’s brain only seems to get worse.

It’s not _fair_ , he thinks, because it wasn’t _him_ that had the accident, wasn’t his brain that got battered, so why, then, is it the inside of his head that doesn’t seem to be working right?

Each and every night is the same. A tiny little trigger—a noise, most often, but sometimes an action, or a stray thought, or something somebody says or that he hears on tv—and suddenly, all hell breaks loose.

It’s... _scary_ , almost, what little control he has over himself. A thought will come, and he will shake, shatter and break in on himself, tremble and smash like glass, like fine china, crumbling under the weight of one single memory that doesn’t want to leave him.

Sometimes, it’s violent. It is tremors, shaking, gasping, wheezing breaths and whimpers he can’t hold back, and it is _heat_ , burning heat that sweats his skin and boils his stomach, and other times, it is silent. Contained solely in his own mind—again and again and again Hinata will fall, and he will lie still, and the _crack_ of his head will ring on and on and on—and he will sit still, quiet, with shallow breaths and vacant eyes, and both times, he barely remembers the next morning.

The memory steals time from him, he is sure. One moment it’s dark, and the clock reads eight, or nine, or _ten_ , and the next there are birds chirping beyond the windows, and sometimes his pyjamas are damp with sweat, pillow marked where he has cried or drooled, sheets rumpled and tossed.

Other times, things are still. His bed is well-kept, clothes dry, eyes stinging and mouth like cotton.

It’s horrible, _awful_ , the worst feeling he’s ever had ever, in his whole life, probably, but the only good thing about it all is that it only seems to happen at night. In the quiet, when he is alone with his thoughts and his brain is free to play.

At least, it starts out that way.

The first time it changes is at practice.

It’s a relatively ordinary day—a good one, really, by his standards of late—and practice is going better than well. Everyone is on the top of their game, even Hinata, and for the first time in a little while he is playing just like he used to, before the accident.

And, most importantly, Kageyama’s head is _behaving_. He’s not worried, not even a _little_ bit as Hinata sails up for a spike, as he sets the ball hard and fast and _wham_. It slams down on the court on the other side of the net, and Kageyama doesn’t even flinch at the noise it makes.

Hinata lands down with a clatter and teeters to find his balance, and when he does, he cheers, and Kageyama cheers too, because this feels _good_. Better than it has in _weeks_. Hinata springs up and back down again, and it must be jarring his head, but Kageyama isn’t even concerned.

This is good. It’s all good.

And it stays good all morning, even after practice is over and he is back in his classes, scribbling his notes because he has found the best way to keep his head calm is to keep it occupied. It remains good over lunch, as he and Hinata share their bentos on the grass outside, face to face with their legs crossed, knees knocking together as they reach and stretch to pick out of each others boxes.

It is still good when they kiss over their lunch, sneaky and trembling with a giddy kind of anticipation. The area is secluded, but they’re still darting their eyes for wanderers that might stumble upon them.

It’s _better_ than good when practice starts up again. Kageyama is _excited_ , actively thrilled to be there, to toss to Hinata until his palms bleed, until every muscle screams at him to stop, and it is only when they are running another set of diving drills, that things very rudely and very abruptly _stop_ being good.

It’s nobody’s fault, in particular.

They’re all diving a little too fast, a little too close behind one another. Perhaps this good feeling has been mutual for all of them—maybe having himself and Hinata back in play for the first time in a while has hyped them up as much as it has hyped Kageyama up—or perhaps they’re just not being careful enough, cautious enough.

Whatever it is, it becomes a problem, because Tanaka dives just a little too soon behind Tsukishima’s long legs, and as Tsukishima kicks up at the end of his dive, Tanaka’s head comes down, and there is the tiniest, narrowest margin for him to swing out of the way to avoid a kick to the teeth.

He makes it—just, Kageyama thinks he can probably hear the wind whistling as Tsukishima’s shoe sails up past his ear—but there is too much momentum in his roll and he loses his balance, tumbles, and the back of his head smacks to the wood floor with a dull _thud_ that fills the gym.

He is fine. Kageyama knows this, because just as everybody starts to panic, he sits up and laughs, rubs at his head, waves off their concern and stands to pick the biggest, fakest fight with Tsukishima’s feet Kageyama has ever seen.

But knowing he is fine doesn’t stop the panic that bubbles up in him. It’s fills him up, glues his feet to the floor as everybody else moves—even Hinata brushes past him, laughing with the rest at the frankly _frightened_ look on Tsukishima’s face as he stares down to where Tanaka is crouched before him, pointing a threatening finger at his trainers.

Everybody is _laughing_ , but Kageyama cannot unhear the noise his skull made on the wood.

His skin itches. He can feel heat billowing under his shirt, warming him, and sweat is starting to prickle down his back and over his chest.

 _Calm down_ , he thinks, clenching his fingers into his shorts. The material is silky soft to the touch and Kageyama thinks about that, instead; about the fabric rubbing between finger and thumb, and about calming his breaths because they are too fast, too shallow.

Suddenly, he very much doesn’t want to be in the gym. The walls are too close, the air is too thin, and the floor is too hard. It’s _dangerous_ , hazardous. Somebody could _die_ on this floor—himself, or Hinata, or anybody else on the team—and the thought spins his head until he feels sick.

“Alright, let’s move on.” Ukai’s voice filters in and Kageyama lets it lead him out of his own head. If he strays too much further in he will be stuck, he knows this. He’ll be stuck there, trapped in an endless loop of crack crack _crack_ until who knows when.

He takes a couple of cautious steps, and his knees tremble.

Practice, after that, is far from good.

Hinata must know something is wrong because he sticks a little too close, nudging at him, at first, and then soothing him with sly touches when nobody is looking; stray fingers that trail over his arms, across his back, but even Hinata’s presence isn’t enough to relax the tension that has settled over him.

The only thing that will calm him even just a little, he thinks, is to leave the gym. The entire building seems menacing, after that, a monster with sharp, dripping fangs and snapping jaws, growling and grumbling and waiting to strike.

He doesn’t breathe a single deep breath until they have left the clubroom. Daichi is treating them to meat buns, and so Kageyama trails along behind the rest as they make their way down the hill to the store. Even Tsukishima and Yamaguchi, who usually bring up the rear, are walking ahead of him, with Yachi trotting along at their side and Kiyoko keeping pace, leafing through her notebook even as she walks.

Kageyama can see Hinata bouncing his way between Sugawara and Daichi. He’s paying no attention, watching the pair of them as he walks, and Kageyama stares at the muddle of his feet as he hops, jumps, twists to talk to each of them in turn. The ground beneath him is solid, unwavering, and it will surely break him if he falls.

Kageyama can feel his shoulders lifting, crowding in about his ears, and he wonders if he must have done something—made a noise or a sudden movement—because Hinata is looking back at him, and then he is trotting past everyone, right to the back of the herd to fall into step beside Kageyama.

“Oi,” he says, leans to nudge Kageyama with his shoulder, “what’re you so tense for, huh?”

Kageyama shakes his head.

“I’m not _tense_ ,” he says. Hinata points an accusatory finger.

“Are so!” he says. “You’re like...the tensest person _ever_. And also the worst liar.”

Kageyama shrugs a shoulder. Or, he tries to, but there is so much stiffness in his muscles that the move is barely even a twitch. Hinata eyes him a little longer, and then his hand sneaks into Kageyama’s jacket pocket alongside his own, and he threads their fingers together.

“You’re being weird,” he says, but there is a softness to it, and to the press of his cheek where he rubs it against Kageyama’s shoulder as they walk. “Like, weirder than normal.”

Kageyama wants to argue. He wants the day to feel normal again, wants the giddy butterflies in his stomach because Hinata is touching him, like he always gets, but all that is occupying his stomach is a heavy, leaden mess, swirling and biting and clawing inside him.

So instead of fighting, he grunts, and Hinata’s fingers squeeze tighter against his own.

“What’s with you? What, you’ve gotten so stupid you can’t even talk now?”

On a normal day, Kageyama would bite back. He’d say something mean and stupid, and Hinata would grin, and he’d play back, too. Or maybe Kageyama would shove him—not hard, just enough for him to wobble away a little—but _god_ what if he fell? What if he hit his head again?

It isn’t worth the risk, not even to appear at least a little on this side of normal, to soothe the worried crinkle at the top of Hinata’s nose.

“Fine,” is all he manages to say, and he squeezes Hinata’s fingers in return—probably a little harder than he needed to, but if Hinata minds, he doesn’t say anything.

They stop with the rest of the group at the foot of the hill, and they mill around, waiting for Daichi to return bearing their gifts.

Hinata keeps his hand in Kageyama’s pocket. It’s not like they’re _never_...affectionate, in front of the team, but it’s not all that often, either, and it’s usually in more private places than the middle of a main street this close to the school. But Hinata doesn’t withdraw, and Kageyama probably wouldn’t let him even if he tried to.

Inside his head, he knows he is tethered on a very thin, very brittle line. The drip has slowed, steadied, but he is already so full that too much more will break him, he knows it. If Hinata lets go now—if he loses this one, solid connection he has to the ground—he might float away, or melt down to nothing, or burst into flames and so he squeezes tighter still, keeping his one precarious tie to the earth held firmly in his pocket.

* * *

The next couple of days are...rocky, at best, with a constant, underlying sense of anxiety creeping beneath everything Kageyama does. Practice is awful, every single session, and Kageyama spends half of the time praying the hours away, and the other half staring, hyper vigilant, tensed and ready for something to go horribly wrong.

But, things do ease up. As the days go by, accident free, it gets a little easier to cope, and by the time another week has gone by, he is feeling relatively okay. Not great, not by any stretch, but...better.

Hinata, he has noticed, is spending even _more_ time glued to his side, which is both nice and a little concerning. Mostly nice, because the butterflies are back, dancing full and fluttery in his stomach whenever Hinata smiles at him, whenever he touches him, hugs him or kisses him.

But it is concerning, because even when they’re relaxing, or when they’re practicing just the two of them, or when they’re fighting—“nuh uh, it’s _definitely_ your turn to buy snacks, I got ‘em last time!”—or when they are pressed side to side, backs to the wall in the shade of the school building, hands clasped between their crossed legs, hidden from view, he can feel Hinata’s eyes watching him.

It shouldn’t be this way around. Hinata is the one who got hurt, he’s the one with the bust brain, with the long-term side effects, with the medication and the seizures and it should be Kageyama watching _him_. It should be Kageyama keeping an eye on him, squeezing his hand when he looks unsure, hugging him on his bad days.

He tries his best, he _does_ , but the simple fact is this: being...being comforting, being caring, those things come naturally to Hinata. Kageyama, in contrast, has no idea what to do with the worry that bubbles up in him. He doesn’t know how to express it—how does he _help_ when Hinata isn’t doing well? How does he make him feel better? How does he just...be there for him, when there is no way to make him feel better?

Kageyama has no answers to any of this, but Hinata, it seems, has all of them.

He knows when to push and prod—when to fight to get a rise out of him—and he knows when to call it quits. He knows when to just sit, to hold Kageyama’s hand or hug him or kiss him, and he knows when to ask questions and when to keep his mouth shut.

Kageyama can only stew in his concern. It eats at him, overwhelms him, shouts loud, panicked cries from the very back of his head—“he’s going to _die_ ,” “he’s going to hurt himself again,” “there’s nothing you can do to protect him,” “the world is dangerous, what can you possibly do to help?”—and Kageyama has no idea how he is supposed to deal with it.

But, in the least, things have been okay. Hinata has been doing well, and by proxy, Kageyama has been doing fairly well, too.

Nights are still an issue, and he still wakes in sweats or in silence, and there is still a strange, cloying kind of fear whenever practice rolls around, but it is all things he can work around, things he can overcome.

And thus far, every little problem he has had has made some kind of sense. All of it has a _reason_ , a trigger, however silly it might be.

Until one day, it doesn’t.

He’s in class when it happens.

The teacher is talking, about English or history or maths, Kageyama doesn’t even know. He is too busy watching the world go by beyond the window, chin propped on his palm, as people scribble down note around him. Some days—the bad ones, usually—Kageyama has gotten good at concentrating in class. It keeps his mind off of other things.

Today is a good day, or at least, a better one, and there is the first balmy breeze of early Spring blowing outside, rustling fresh, green leaves where they sprout on half-bare branches.

The classroom is warm, and the day is nice, and Hinata is crumpled on the gym floor, and the sound of his skull is cracking in Kageyama’s head.

It comes on quickly, so sudden Kageyama doesn’t even have time to work himself out of it. One moment he is watching the trees, and the next Hinata is unconscious, and the gym is empty, silent save for the echo of his head on the wood.

He doesn’t know how long it lasts. It could be minutes, could be hours, could be _days_ but when it stops, the classroom is empty, save for his teacher and the school nurse crouched beside his desk. It was one of the worse ones, he can tell, because his shirt is tacked to his skin and his top lip is salty when he licks over it, eyes darting between the nurse and the teacher and the empty chairs around him.

They ask questions, lots of them. How he is feeling, first, if he needs to lie down, if he’s going to be sick, if he’s in any pain—and then they move on to other things, to, “Do you remember what happened?” and, “Can you tell us what you do remember?”

Kageyama gives them half-hearted answers. No, no he doesn’t remember what happened, and no, no he won’t tell them what he does remember. He doesn’t want to think about it, not ever, because he can already feel his skin itching, warming, and the nurse must know he is too close to slipping away again because she doesn’t press anymore.

“I’d like to take your temperature, see if you have a fever, is that okay?”

Kageyama nods. He knows what the result will be—off the charts, it has to be, because even with the fevers he has had in the past he has never burned quite the way he does when he starts thinking about Hinata and The Accident.

The teacher helps him stand, even though he protests, because he is _fine_ , he is, just a little wobbly is all, and once he is on his feet he shrugs away the hand on his elbow and follows the nurse out the door.

The rest of his class is lined up in the hallway. They whisper behind their hands as he passes, and Kageyama loosens his collar. He’s still too hot, and his brain is still too foggy, but it takes enough concentration to put one foot in front of the other that he manages to keep the black, rumbling storm clouds at bay.

In the nurse's office, she takes his temperature—it’s high, but not as high as Kageyama expected—and his blood pressure, and a few other things that Kageyama doesn’t pay too much attention to. He’s tired, so tired, and all he wants to do right now is go _home_.

“You don’t remember what happened?” the nurse asks, again, and Kageyama shakes his head. She frowns, just a little, a crease between her brows that reminds him so much of Hinata, of the way his nose wrinkles when he’s thinking too hard, that his heart jumps in his chest.

“Your teacher,” she says, “he said you started shaking. You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“You were holding your head, Kageyama, like you were in pain. You don’t remember a headache?”

“No.”

“You were rocking, too,” she says, and Kageyama wishes she would stop. He doesn’t want to know just what the rest of his body is doing while his mind is looping Hinata’s fall over and over again. He doesn’t want to know what he did in front of his classmates, how he acted, how he responded physically to the mental replay of the scariest moment of his life.

He doesn’t want to know any of that.

He just wants to go home.

“Do you remember anything? Anything at all.”

“...no.”

It’s a lie, and the nurse must know so, because she gives him a look like she wants to push, to press, but instead she puts down her clipboard and straightens out of her chair.

“We can call your parents, if you’d like,” she says, “or you can stay here until you feel better.”

Kageyama would rather do neither—he’d like to just go _home_ , without having to tell his family he is broken, but that doesn’t appear to be an option. So instead, he opts to stay, and the nurse lets him lie in the bed and watch the trees out the window. He settles, and as the nurse is gathering up her things, she turns back once more.

“Oh,” she says, “you were saying a name, Kageyama, do you remember that?”

He doesn’t remember, but Kageyama has a very good idea who he was calling for.

* * *

The rumour that Kageyama had a funny turn in the middle of his math class spreads through the school like wildfire.

He skipped out on practice that night, and he avoided every text and every phone call—most from Hinata—until the constant chime of his phone became too much to endure, and he turned it off altogether.

When he wakes the following morning, Kageyama thinks he’d rather stay in bed than tolerate all the questions he is sure to get, and even though the warmth of his bed is tempting—he must’ve been exhausted, a culmination of too many sleepless nights and the stress of zoning out like he did in _public_ , because he slept like a log for the first time in weeks—he drags himself up and showers, and dresses for the rest of the day.

His class, he knows how to deal with. He will scowl and he will glower, and they’ll keep their questions firmly to themselves. They can gossip and they can whisper, Kageyama doesn’t much care, so long as nobody says anything to him about it.

The team, however…

The team, he has no idea how to handle.

He meets his first hurdle at the front gate.

Hinata must have caught an earlier bus, or gotten a lift, because his bike is nowhere to be seen but there he is, standing by the gates, clutching his bag strap to his chest and ringing the leather in his hands. He’s all panicky, pale skin and wide, red-rimmed eyes and god, Kageyama knows he hasn’t slept, he knows so, and the thought has a thick tendril of guilt unfurling in his stomach.

Hinata starts when he sees him. And then he runs, tears down the road—too fast, if he falls he’ll _hurt_ himself—and skids to a stop so close to Kageyama’s chest, he has to crane his head back to look at him.

“What happened?” He says, and when Kageyama doesn’t answer, Hinata bangs a fist to his chest. It doesn’t hurt, but the twist of Hinata’s face does. “Why’d you not answer your phone, huh? I thought you _died_ , stupid.”

His voice cracks around the edges, and Kageyama blinks down at him.

“Everyone was saying you—you had a _seizure_ or something, like, they were saying you were shaking, and you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t _listen_ to anybody—”

“I’m fine,” Kageyama says. Hinata uncurls his fist and grips at Kageyama’s jacket.

“They said—they said you—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says again. Hinata doesn’t believe him, not even a little bit, and Kageyama swallows down the lump in his throat as Hinata’s eyes start to swim.

“Stupid,” he says, sniffles, “if you’re _fine_ , answer your phone! Reply to my texts! Don’t be such an ass!”

“Sorry.” And he is, he truly is, more sorry than he’s ever been in his whole _life_ , probably. He hates this, that he made Hinata worry, that he kept him from sleeping, made him _cry_ because that’s...that’s almost what he’s doing now. He’s holding together, but barely.

“Let’s go to practice,” Kageyama says. Hinata pouts, just a little, and then the faintest patches of pink colour his cheeks and he stretches in his toes, presses a kiss to Kageyama’s cheek.

“Don’t _ever_ do that again, okay?”

“Okay.”

Hinata drags him by the wrist all the way to the gym. Kageyama’s stomach can’t quite work out what to do—it’s still churning with the worst kind of guilt, but the butterflies are there, too, because Hinata’s fingers are warm where they curl around his wrist, soft save for the callouses marring his palm, and...and it’s kind of nice, in the weirdest way, that Hinata was so worried about him.

Kageyama’s panic spikes the moment they get into the gym.

Everybody is nice enough—he gets a scolding similar to Hinata’s, only less teary, from everybody in turn before they start their warm up—and none of them ask any questions, but he can feel them watching him, analysing his every move for signs that something is terribly wrong.

And something _is_ terribly wrong. Kageyama knows it is.

He just...doesn’t know what it is that’s wrong with him.

Practice is full of tight, measured breaths and watchful eyes, just like always, because the gym is as monstrous and menacing as ever. It waits still and silent, and every squeak of shoes or _thump_ of the ball makes Kageyama jump, sends his eyes darting from side to side, stiffens his shoulders and his neck until they ache.

The panic doesn’t wear off after practice. It drip-drip-drips faster, _louder_ , buzzes in him as he walks to class, fizzes as the lesson goes on. Eyes turn his way at every opportunity, he can feel them—the teacher and the students alike—and he sits up straight in his chair, every fibre of his being focused on keeping the connection between his brain and his body firmly intact.

He’s still on edge even as the lunch bell rings.

People around him clatter, fetching their lunch and arranging their desks into little tables, sitting in circles and chatting, louder and louder, until Kageyama’s head is full of it. So full, in fact, he misses Hinata’s knock on the door, and the wave of his hand, and only does he realise he is there when he walks in and prods at his shoulder.

“You coming?” He says, and adds, “I’ve got my volleyball, we can do some receives!”

Kageyama nods. Honest truth, he doesn’t want to do receives, or serves, or tosses or spikes, but he does want to get away from the whispers of his classmates, because he knows exactly what it is they’re saying.

 _That’s Hinata_ , they say, _that’s who Kageyama was calling for yesterday_.

He follows behind Hinata at a slow pace. His lunch dangles from one hand, but he has no real intention of eating it. There are bits and pieces Hinata will like, though, so even though his stomach is turning and his throat is too pinched to eat, Kageyama opens his box and sets it alongside Hinata’s.

“Oi,” Hinata says, poking his chopsticks in Kageyama’s direction, “you sure you’re not dying?”

“I’m sure.” He isn’t. He isn’t sure at all.

“You’re like... _super_ quiet,” he goes on, picking a mouthful of grilled fish from Kageyama’s bento, “you’re not even _mad_ , I haven’t seen you frown once all morning.”

Kageyama shrugs his shoulders. He’s not hungry, even as his stomach gurgles. He mustn’t have had dinner last night, and he definitely didn’t have breakfast. He _should_ eat, he should, but there is just…no room in him for food.

“And,” Hinata says, “I brought pork curry _specially_ , and you haven’t even touched it.”

It’s only then that Kageyama notices what it is that Hinata has sitting in his bento box. It smells good— _amazing_ —but...he doesn’t want to eat it. It’ll taste like paste, because his mouth is too dry for food, and the thought of it sitting on his tongue makes him feel like gagging.

Hinata eats on, and Kageyama watches him as he does. Something warm wells up in him at the sight—Hinata, happy and healthy, sitting opposite him, scarfing down his lunch too fast like he always does, alive, not dead, not dying—and before he knows it, Kageyama is buried behind the clouds, but this time, Hinata is in a bed.

A stark white bed, wrapped in bandages, hooked up to machines with bruises webbing out beneath his hair. His eyes are off, hazy, and he stares up at Kageyama and the image revs, flashes, and Hinata is sitting on the bench with his hands over his eyes, panicked cries echoing in Kageyama’s head, and then it changes again, and they are sitting in an empty corridor, Hinata’s hand fisted in Kageyama’s jacket as he stares, vacant and unseeing into the space between them.

These images play like an old movie role, flashing and flickering one by one and Kageyama stares at them, wishing more than anything in the world they would _stop_ , because Hinata is fine now. He’s fine. He’s not in hospital and he’s not seizing all the time, he’s happy, he’s healthy, he’s eating lunch and playing volleyball and being _Hinata_.

So why is this all he can think about? Why, _months_ on, can Kageyama not move past what happened?

He comes around to a hand squeezed into his shoulder.

Hinata is kneeling in front of his with wide, frightened eyes, their bento boxes kicked and spilled to one side. His skin is pale, more so than it was that morning, even, and the hand gripping his shoulder is shaking.

“Kageyama!” He’s calling, a little high and a little frantic. Kageyama blinks, and swallows. The inside of his head is thick and fuzzy like it always is when the flashbacks stop, and he feels dizzy, shaky, anxiety whirling in his chest. “‘Yama— _Tobio_ —hey!”

Kageyama blinks again, and reaches up for Hinata’s hand. He means to push him away, but instead his fingers curl around Hinata’s wrist, hold him in place. _He’s fine_ , he tells himself, _Hinata is fine. He’s right here._

“Kageyama?”

Kageyama nods, so that Hinata knows he has heard him. His throat stings, burns like he’s swallowed sandpaper and he doesn’t trust himself to speak, not just yet.

In the least, this time, he didn’t sweat. He isn’t shaking, and he doesn’t ache in the way he does after the more volatile flashbacks, so in the least he probably didn’t embarrass himself too much. But Hinata still looks worried, _beyond_ worried—scared, even—and another bubble of guilt balloons in him.

Hinata sits back on his heels. He blows out the biggest breath, squeezes Kageyama’s shoulder once more before his hand glides out of place, slips down his chest to settle on Kageyama’s thigh.

“You...you aren’t fine,” Hinata says, and his eyes are all wide, words a little lost and a little breathy, “you really—you _did_ have a seizure. You just had another one!”

“Yeah, sure,” Kageyama says. It’s still a little choked, kind of vacant, but it is better than keeping his silence. “Must’ve caught them off you.”

Hinata side-eyes him, and for a moment he sits quiet, thinking, and then he shakes his head and narrows his gaze a little more.

“Seizures aren’t contagious,” he says, and then adds, “I don’t think.”

Kageyama snorts a tiny, shaky laugh. Seizures aren’t contagious, he knows so, because he spent so much time googling them when Hinata had his first one that he doubts there’s any single thing he _doesn’t_ know about them, but if Hinata doesn’t know that, Kageyama isn’t going to tell him.

Hinata is still eyeing him funny, but at Kageyama’s insistence, he lets it go. Instead, he reaches for the volleyball, and holds it out between them.

“Wanna practice?”

Kageyama stares at the ball. It stares back, and it is a reminder—a horrible, sickening reminder—of what happened to Hinata, and of what is happening to him. If...if Hinata hadn’t landed on it, hadn’t lost his footing, he’d never have fallen. He’d never have hit his head. He’d never broken his brain.

And Kageyama’s brain would never have broken with him.

He stares at the ball, and at Hinata, and he shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t want to practice.”

* * *

It’s not just the once—Kageyama is finding as the days go by, he doesn’t want to practice at _all_. He’s not interested, not even a little bit, in playing volleyball. The only thing he feels for the sport now is fear, a heart-stopping, gut-curling kind of panic, and more and more often, Kageyama is finding excuses to skip out.

A fake doctor's appointment is his first excuse. It appeases Hinata, in the least, and gives him a good excuse to miss morning practice. He feels bad, lying, but Hinata seems to calm at knowing that everything is allegedly fine.

It’s hard not to spill his truths when Hinata kisses him, the longest, sweetest kiss they’ve shared yet, and whispers against his lips that he is happy, so happy that Kageyama is okay.

His next excuse is a dentist appointment.

The next one is homework—it’s a stretch, and there are confused looks from most of the team when he tells them, because since when did Kageyama care so much about _homework_ —but they let him leave, and he is thankful, because the sight of the gym looming over him tensed every muscle he has, squeezing, ready to flee.

It’s silly—being scared of the gym, scared of the sport he loves—but Kageyama can’t get past it. Every time he tries to reason with himself, to tell himself it’s not the gym's fault, it’s not _volleyball’s_ fault, that tiny voice in the back of his pipes up loud and clear, with it’s picture-proof, and Kageyama cowers beneath it.

The problem is, he can’t miss _every_ practice. It’d be too suspicious, and the last thing he wants is for people to start asking questions.

And so most days, he forces himself to go. And most days, he barely makes it through, with his jaw clenched and his muscles aching, screaming, stiff about his thighs and his shoulders. Most days, nobody says anything, but they watch him. They all watch him.

Kageyama spends an awful lot of the time he’s practicing staring at Hinata. He looks at his feet, the way he runs—his laces are loose, he might trip, he might hit his head—at the ball every time it gets close to him, and his play is suffering for it, he knows it is. His tosses are less accurate, serves have less power, but honestly?

Honestly, he doesn’t _care_.

Maybe, if he gets bad enough, they’ll kick him off the team. And then he won’t _have_ to play, which...it’s silly, because he loves volleyball with all of his heart, he _knows_ that. He knows that somewhere, deep down, he still loves it more than anything in the _world_ , but every single positive feeling is shrouded by the big, full well of panic that has drip-drip-dripped into him, that leaks over the edges, cracks the basin around its sides.

One day, the water will stop overflowing. The basin will fill, and fill, and fill, sloshing and spilling and some day, the pressure will be too much to handle—and the dam will break.

* * *

His walls give out on a Wednesday.

He never really has good days, anymore, just better, bearable ones. Today is a better one—he makes it to the gym with no _real_ desire to run away, and he changes without his hands trembling, walks through the doors with no shake in his knees, and he thinks, maybe, he can make it through practice with minimal panic.

It’s a good feeling, setting the ball to Tanaka, watching him slam it down between Asahi and Tsukishima’s block, and there is a tingle in his fingers that reminds him a little of why he still plays, even with the fear curdling in him.

And then Hinata falls, _again_ , and the illusion of any kind of peace is shattered.

It’s silly, really; Noya and Tanaka messing around, pushing and pulling at him, shoving their jokes, and Hinata is reciprocating in kind—Kageyama can’t watch, he can’t, but he doesn’t intervene, either. Just turns his back, and lets them get on.

He is scooping up a ball when it happens. He doesn’t see it, but he _hears_ it, the _thunk_ , and the gasps, and when he turns to face the scene it is in slow motion, like trying to twist himself through syrup.

He doesn’t _want_ to see.

He doesn’t know what will greet him when he finally turns around, but people are _fussing_ , and—and Hinata was playing, messing around, what if he has fallen, what if he’s _hurt_ —

—Hinata is on the ground when he turns.

Nishinoya is reaching a hand, and Hinata is taking it, pulling himself to sit upright, and there are smiles on most of the surrounding faces—how can they laugh? How can they joke when Hinata is lying on the gym floor, again, when Hinata could be hurt, could be dying?

“Sorry, sorry,” Noya and Tanaka are saying, laughing, and Hinata waves them off as he clambers to his feet.

“Careful,” Suga hisses, but he is smiling too, just a little, like whatever happened must have been funny.

But it _wasn’t_ funny. Kageyama didn’t see it, but he knows it wasn’t funny. Anything involving Hinata and falling and the hardwood floor isn’t _funny_.

“What the hell happened?”

The words come out louder, angrier than he had intended, and before he knows it he has crossed the space, placed himself between Hinata and the upperclassmen. His fists are curled at his sides, nails pinching into his palms, and everybody around him goes quiet. Silent.

“Ah,” Noya says, scratching his head, “sorry, man, I tripped him.”

His walls are cracking, crumbling, he can feel it. All of the panic is flowing free, bursting out of him, and with it comes a sense of fury so strong it blinds him.

“You could’ve—could’ve _killed_ him, what the _f—”_

Kageyama isn’t at all aware of what he says, after that—shouts, because that’s what he’s doing, _yelling_ , all of the bottled up anger and frustration and _fear_ is roaring out of him—but it must be bad, it _must_ be, because Sugawara is trying to shush him, and Daichi has stepped up, blocked Tanaka and Noya from view but still, Kageyama doesn’t stop.

He won’t stop until he’s spent, empty.

When the rage subsides, he is panting, and the tap is _pouring_ , filling him up all over again, with the most bitter sense of panic he’s ever felt. He sucks in a shaky breath, and small, gentle hands sink into the back of his shirt.

“‘Yama,” Hinata says, and Kageyama’s back stiffens. “’Yama, stop, it was an _accident_.”

An accident. The first time was an accident, too, and look how that turned out.

Kageyama shudders, and turns on his heel. Hinata stands tall even under his glare—it’s pulling his brows so low he can barely even _see_ —and tips his head, blinks big eyes up at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks. It’s not accusatory, not at all, but it feels that way to Kageyama. “I know you’re like, the angriest person ever, but you’re not...like this. You’re being _super_ mean. What’s going on?”

“You—,” Kageyama starts. Sweats is beading at the back of his neck, blood boiling beneath his skin. “You could have gotten hurt, _again_.”

“But I _didn’t_ ,” he says. “And I told you, it was an accident—”

“So was the last time,” Kageyama spits. “Just because it’s an accident, doesn’t mean it’s all going to be okay.”

“But it _is_ okay, stupid,” Hinata says. Kageyama flinches, and another wave of anger breaks over him.

“You know what? Fine,” he says. He steps back, tugs Hinata’s fingers loose from his shirt. “Fine, you can keep going around like nothing bad is going to happen. _Fine_. But I’m not—I’m not gonna sit around and wait for you to get yourself hurt, or get yourself killed, or whatever.”

“Kage—”

Kageyama turns once again. There is a ringing in his ears, so loud it almost, _almost_ drowns out the sound of his name, calling from multiple mouths, shouting for him to stop, to wait, to come back.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

Kageyama doesn’t sleep well. The night is fitful, filled with cracks and thuds and picture after picture of Hinata lying still and prone, of his body twitching, of the look on his face as Kageyama pulled away from him in the gym and left him with harsh words from a fear-sharp tongue.

* * *

He resolutely avoids practice, after that. Avoids the whole team.

He even avoids Hinata.

There are texts and there are calls, as the days go on, but Kageyama takes to deleting the messages and hanging up at the first ring. He doesn’t want to talk, even as the guilt eats at him—it _hurts_ , gnaws him from the inside out—because as horrible as it seems, the thought of seeing Hinata, of spending time with him, of watching and worrying with every move he makes, sends a flood of panic through him so strong, it chokes him.

And so, he stays away.

It’s not all that difficult to do. They’re in separate classes, so without practice, it’s easy enough to sneak in in the morning, hide himself at lunch—sometimes amongst his classmates, and from there he will peek between arms and shoulders as Hinata passes by the door, peers in, cranes on his toes to find Kageyama in amongst the throng, and sometimes he will leave, find somewhere secluded and wait out the time before the bell rings. And it’s easy to leave, to run at the end of the day, make it home before Hinata even has a chance to start looking for him.

The problem is, all this avoiding—the team and the gym, volleyball and Hinata—isn’t really helping in the way he thought it would.

Instead, it seems to be making things worse.

Granted, he is spending less of his time in that weird, constant state of fear, but when the anxiety _does_ creep in, it is tenfold. It _floors_ him in its intensity, sends him shaking, shivering, immobile until he can work his way out of each episode. The flashbacks are more vivid, too; brighter, louder, and Kageyama doesn’t really know what else he can do to make it all stop.

The other problem is, an awful lot of his day is spent wondering how Hinata is. Wondering if he’s okay, if he’s upset, and _agonising_ over the things he said to him in the gym. He doesn’t remember what he said to Tanaka and to Noya, to Daichi, to anyone else who tried to get in his way, but he vividly, with _painful_ clarity, remembers every word he said to Hinata.

And it _sucks_.

Hinata didn’t deserve that. None of them deserved his anger, not one person, because Kageyama _knows_ how much they care. He knows how worried they were, how worried they _are_ , but Hinata, especially, did nothing to warrant his rage.

Kageyama tries his best not to think about it. He tries to study, listen in his classes and work on his homework, but honest truth, he is _exhausted_. Physically and emotionally drained. He’s not used to _caring_ so much, and perhaps that’s why things have been so hard, are still so hard. He barely sleeps, barely eats—he’s lost weight, he knows he has, can feel it in the peek of his hips and the skin that is starting to stretch over his ribs, and he can see it in the hollow of his cheeks.

He is struggling, but he _shouldn’t_ be. Not now that he has removed the cause of his problems.

* * *

Hinata confronts him on a Monday.

Up until now, Kageyama has been doing well at keeping far, far away from him, and from everyone else on the team. None of them have tried to approach him, not in person, but they do still text and they do still call, even if they must know by now that Kageyama isn’t going to answer.

Today, Kageyama darts out of class as soon as he can, takes the steps two at a time down to his shoe locker—it winds him, steals what little energy he has left—and changes quickly. Even from here, he can hear the rain pouring. It’s warm, humid, and the air is charged with something thick and heavy. It feels like thunder, and Kageyama wants to make it home before the storm hits.

He makes it out the doors, past the main gates, down to Ukai’s store and out towards the park before Hinata catches him.

He is running—Kageyama hears the pound of his feet, feels a deep, instinctual need to start running, too, but he doesn’t have the energy for so much exercise. He should stop and turn, if he isn’t going to run, but instead he keeps walking, like maybe keeping his back to Hinata might stop him from getting too close.

It doesn’t, and instead Hinata crashes into him, thin arms wrapping around his waist and trapping his hands at his sides. Kageyama’s umbrella crashes to the floor, and warm rain pounds down on him.

“Stop,” Hinata says, words mumbled into Kageyama’s jacket, right between his shoulder blades. He can feel the way Hinata’s nose is crushed to him, and the arms around his waist squeeze tighter. “Please, just stop.”

Kageyama forces himself to relax. God, he wants to run—far, far away—but he is tired, and Hinata will only follow, and Kageyama will worry that he might fall and get himself hurt and—

It is a never-ending cycle, it seems.

“What do you want?”

“For you to talk to me,” Hinata mutters. His voice is high and tight and _strained_ , and the little cracks in it open in Kageyama’s heart like a map of every word he says. “Stop avoiding me. Tell me what’s wrong with you. Stop being the worst boyfriend ever and spend time with me again. Also, stop being the stupidest person.”

“You’re the stupidest person,” Kageyama says, and Hinata hugs him harder still.

“Nuh uh,” he says, softly, “you’re way more stupider.”

“Stupider isn’t even a _word_.”

“Is so.”

Kageyama bites back a smile. Something achingly warm fills him, and he reaches up a hand—it’s hard, with Hinata trapping him around his elbows—and curls it up to grip at Hinata’s wrist. He has missed this, he _has_ , and it’s...it’s nice. To be with him again.

Hinata takes a breathe. He steps right up close, so that Kageyama can feel his chest and his stomach pressed all the way down his back. He doesn’t like knowing that Hinata can feel all of the places his flesh has worn away, because he can’t possibly miss it, but Hinata doesn’t seem to mind. He twists his face until it is his cheek resting against Kageyama’s spine rather than his nose.

“You’re,” Hinata starts, swallows. “You’ve not been _you_ for ages.”

Kageyama knows that. He _knows_ , he’s been a shell of himself for over a _month_ , since that first night in the rain. It feels forever ago, thinking back, that he felt that first real, crippling prickle of worry, and it’s almost hard to believe there was a time before that. A time when he didn’t panic.

A time when he wasn’t scared.

“I—” he starts, and then he chokes. “I know.”

Hinata, it seems, wasn’t expecting to hear that. He stiffens, and then he squeezes him, so hard and so tight that Kageyama thinks his thin waist might just snap in two.

“You said—you said you went to a doctor,” Hinata says, “you said you were okay.”

“I know.”

Hinata’s arms loosen their hold, and slip down Kageyama’s sides. His hands grip into his jacket instead, fingers clenching, pulling the too-big fabric tight against him.

“Did you lie?”

“Yes.”

It hurts to admit—hurts more than he thought it would, but Hinata doesn’t get mad. If anything, the sigh he lets out sounds _relieved_ , like it was the answer he’d been hoping for.

“Yeah,” Hinata says. “I thought so. You’re the worst liar.”

“Am _not_.”

Hinata hums. The rain is heaving, and the clouds above them are beginning to rumble. They roll in over them, big and grey and stormy, and Kageyama reaches to fish one of Hinata’s hands off of his jacket.

“Out of the rain, dumbass,” he says, stooping to pick up his umbrella. “Or we’re gonna get sick.”

Hinata follows dutifully behind him as they walk. He sticks close, so close Kageyama can feel the warmth of him right up against his side, and Kageyama leads them over the road and into a big, sheltered bus stop. He shakes the water off his umbrella and out of his hair, and Hinata does the same, spraying tiny little water droplets all over the bench and the backboard of the shelter.

He sits, shuffles all the way back, so far that his toes barely skim the floor. Kageyama bites back a weird, wobbly smile and the fondest kind of swell in his heart and takes a seat beside him.

Hinata reaches for one of his hands, and pulls it over into his lap.

For a while, they sit in silence. The storm grows closer, thunder bubbling and lightning flashing, and Kageyama listens to the rain drum the roof of the shelter while Hinata sits, and thinks, and teases little patterns on Kageyama’s hand with the tips of his fingers.

“My doctor,” Hinata says, after a time, kicking his legs as he sits, “she said I might get P...PS...I dunno what she called it.”

Kageyama snickers, and Hinata stick out his tongue.

“Shut up,” he says, “she said I might get scared a lot, thinking about like, the accident and stuff.”

“Do you?”

Hinata shrugs a shoulder.

“Not really,” he says, “it happened, and I’m okay now. I’m more worried about the seizures coming back and stuff, but I don’t really think about it all the time.”

“I do,” Kageyama says. It’s hard to admit, out loud, and his tongue feels too big and too dry behind his teeth. “I...I think about it. A lot.”

Hinata blows out a breath.

“Maybe you have it,” he says, “the scared thing.”

He can’t have, surely, Kageyama thinks, because it wasn’t _his_ accident. It wasn’t his trauma to be scared of, and he tells Hinata so, watching heavy raindrops ripple the puddles beyond the bus shelter.

“But it was still something super scary, right? And you saw it happen. I bet it’s more scary for you than it is for _me_.”

Kageyama looks out of the shelter. Cars whizz by, and people rush past on the pavement, splashing in puddles and kicking up little wheels of water in their wake, and all the time Hinata and Kageyama sit in the privacy of the shelter, removed from the rest of the hectic world in a tiny, personal moment of peace.

Kageyama’s dam breaks again.

Only, it’s less of a break, this time, and more a controlled release. Kageyama opens the gate himself, and everything leaks out of him, but it is slower than before, and it’s all going in one direction: filling the words he spills to Hinata.

He tells him about the panic, and the worry, and the flashbacks and the episodes and the triggers, the _lack_ of triggers, the horrible, spontaneous worries that grip and seize him, about his feelings about the gym, and about volleyball, and he tells him that he is sorry. Sorry for being a worry, and for shouting, for saying all the things he said and doing all the things he did.

And, at Hinata’s prompting, with warm cheeks and pink skin, sorry for being the worst boyfriend ever.

Hinata plays with Kageyama’s fingers in his lap. He curls them, straightens them, runs patterns across his palm and finally, finally knots their hands together. Kageyama’s stomach grows pleasantly hot, and some of the tightness seeps out of his chest.

“Maybe you should see a doctor for real,” he says. “I bet they can make you better.”

Kageyama shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t know what they could _do_. They can’t _make_ him love volleyball again, and they can’t make him stop worrying, start sleeping and start eating. He tells Hinata so, and Hinata shrugs right back.

“They made my brain work right again,” he says, “even when they thought they might not ever be able to.”

Kageyama grunts. Hinata slips closer, closer, until his damp thigh is pressed right up against Kageyama’s, and his cheek rests on Kageyama’s shoulder.

“If they can fix my broken brain they can fix yours, too, I think.”

The storm is letting up. Broken, cracked sunlight is peeking through, splitting the cloud cover and lighting the land, and even though the rain still pours and the thunder still growls, it doesn’t seem quite as dark as before.

Kageyama twists his head. Hinata is looking up at him, and when Kageyama meets his eyes, he smiles, big and wide and stupidly beautiful, and a little of the cloud in Kageyama’s head breaks apart, too.

He leans the little space between them and presses a kiss to Hinata’s smiling mouth. It’s not the best kiss in the world—Kageyama gets his teeth, at first, and Hinata laughs right into his mouth, but his palm is hot where it curls against the back of Kageyama’s neck, and every giggle tastes sweet on his tongue.

There is no quick fix. If Kageyama has taken anything from the accident, and from Hinata’s recovery, it’s that problems aren’t solved overnight. It won’t be easy, won’t be painless, won’t be fast.

But Hinata is kissing him, and the storm is clearing, and maybe one day he will step up to the gym with Hinata, calloused palm pressed to his own, and there will be no nerves. There will be no fear. No panic.

Only the heat of Hinata’s little body at his side, and the smile on his face, and the excitement, the _thrill_ of standing on the court once more, playing the sport he loves, with this boy—this dumb, stupid, _wondrous_ boy—playing beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For definitive clarification: Kageyama is suffering from PTSD. I tried to include a wider range of symptoms, rather than just panic attacks--volatile behaviour, mood swings, avoidance of anything related to the traumatic experience, overreactions to percieved threats etc--because I didn't want it to be like...a caricature of PTSD, and I do hope I did it well enough!! Some of it is based on my own experiences, but an awful lot of it is research, so I am hoping I've done justice to a serious condition, even if i did like...hoof this out in a day. 
> 
> Thank you so much to annyone who is still reading and still interested, this was really interesting to write, even if it did make me sad in a lot of places, and thank you for any comments/kudos/bookmarks etc. As always, feel free to join me on my tumblr @ someone-stole-my-shoes or my twitter @someone_stolemy, if you want to talk some more about this fic or any fics or just kagehina in general!!

**Author's Note:**

> idk I just hoofed this out in like five hours it felt like a good idea at the time


End file.
